


Safe & Sound

by MarinaForever



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: 1st quarter quell, Absent Parents, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Bottom Castiel, Child Abuse, Crossover, Emotional Hurt, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Musician Dean, Quarter Quell, Slow Build, christian!castiel, multifandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 142,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarinaForever/pseuds/MarinaForever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester would do anything to escape District 12. He slaves in the coal mines day after day to keep his little brother Sam in school, and constantly argues with his drunken father, although those aren't the things that make him upset with 12. It's the Games. Every year he watches 23 kids die, ripping each other apart. That's what Dean wants to get away from the most. But in the voting process for the first ever Quarter Quell, Sam gets elected in as 12's male tribute. Dean volunteers in his place, sentenced into the trap he hoped to avoid.</p><p>Castiel Novak lives in his brother Lucifer's shadow in District 1, after Luce came out as victor in the Games years ago. Not that Castiel minds. His nose is usually buried in some book instead of begging for fame from the Capitol. Despite all of this, he is voted into the Games as a new favourite, expected to win by everyone in his District. What he can't predict is that there's a certain tribute with a knack for rebelling and a need to break free of the cage, a tribute who can play piano and guitar and make him fall fast in love with him, a boy who they nicknamed the Escape Artist. A boy who's name is Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “I am prepared to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.”  
> —Winston Churchill

**District 12**

It was raining that morning, just like always.

That surprised no one, as this week it had grown especially bad, and this time of year was known for the constant rainfall. However, it was never this much rain in just one day. It was a lot more than the regular inch they usually received in 12. A whole foot of water came pouring down the pervious night, causing the coalmines to become more and more dangerous, with the persistent risk of flooding hanging over everyone’s heads. A collapse was possible under these conditions. Everything was rather terrifying that day.

The miners worked nine hour shifts, and that meant nine hours, eight until five, that they would slave away with their boots full of water, their hands clammy and freezing, people catching hypothermia left and right.

Despite all of this, the mines didn’t even close. There wasn’t even consideration to shut them down. Production ran on a tight schedule. Coal was the number one fuel source across all of Panem, always in high demand.

It caused misery for everyone.

Well, just about everyone.

Dean Winchester didn’t like to clump himself in the term “everyone.”

After working in the mines for a solid year and a half, Dean found that he actually liked it when the weather became an unbearable bitch. There was some kind of thrill to it, with the risk of possible death surrounding you wherever you turned. It was the kind of working conditions that forced him not to think, just to work, and at eighteen years old, Dean Winchester liked not having to think.

Especially around this time of year.

No one liked to think at this time of year, with the days to the reaping’s counting down. A clock on a bomb, waiting to explode.

They liked to pretend that the bomb didn’t exist.

Dean worked hard in the mines, for the small amount of pay he got. He didn’t have a constant job, but rather became a jack-of-all-trades down in the tunnels. One day he might be running coal in the carts, the next digging deeper into the passageways.

Today, something was different.

Different was always a bad sign.

The mines had two television sets hanging up, the first being closer to the elevator, and the second father down West Tunnel 2. Both of the sets had been switched on, the volume turned up so that the audio could be heard by the fifty or so laborers.

Not a single person was working. Their eyes were focused too heavily on the TV, quietly waiting. A mummer would rush through the crowd before disappearing again. Dean stood alone, leaning anxiously on his pickaxe, his heart squeezing little by little as the seconds passed. He would check his watch, too. So did the others, in a state close to silence.

It was six minutes until noon.

Anticipation was a growing force.

A heavy hand landed on Dean’s shoulder, and an older voice spoke to him. “So, what do you think they’re gonna do?”

Ash stood behind him, face greased and long hair stained with coal dust. There wasn’t a single person in 12 who didn’t think Ash should get his mullet cut off, and of course, Ash didn’t listen. Dean didn’t mind it, because he wasn’t in the “everyone” crowd. But he agreed that Ash should try to wash it now and again, before one of his cigarettes caught his hair on fire.

Ash was usually a cocky character, too. He was usually loud and excited and boastful about his thirteen-year-old sister getting an award at school. He was usually joking about something, or ranting off that the Capitol was just full of scumbags and “motherfucking sadists,” and no one stood against his accusations. They just chose to keep quiet about them in hushed mutuality.

But of course, today was different, and different was bad.

Ash was quiet, his eyes glued to the television. He was twenty-one this year, and too old to have his name entered in the reaping, but Dean could almost feel the fear radiating off of his grimy skin.

Dean heaved a sigh, and rubbed the back of his neck. “To be honest, buddy… I have no clue.”

_I have no clue, but it can’t be something good._

He checked his watch again. 11:56 am.

In 12, they had chalked up the term of “Announcement Day,” mostly just referred to as AD. This was the very first AD; there was never a need for one before this year, and that’s because the Games were never under any special circumstances until this year. They were just the Games.  
Kids go into the arena, and kids died in the arena.

That was the idea.

This year was different, and different was bad.

Dean swallowed hard, his heart starting to pound a little bit faster. 11:58 am. He could feel his fists tighten and release, tighten and release. He always held an enormous hatred towards the Games, since he was young, as he watched friends and siblings get ripped away from their families for years. For years, he wouldn’t even watch the Games, but would always hear the mother’s cry when their child was murdered in cold blood, the entire country witnessing it. Sometimes there was no body left for a funeral, and that was always the worst part.

It was the same story every year, because the kids from 12 were the ones to never make it back home. There was never a victory story for them.

But of course, as much as Dean wanted to be angry, to burn buildings down, to rip out the throats of everyone who was part of the reason his best friend was killed without reason, he couldn’t. There was no point. Being angry doesn’t stop anybody, it just gets people hurt, and it certainly didn’t make the government sit down and say, “Oh jeez, this eighteen year-old punk thinks that the Hunger Games are cruel and unfair, and oh he’s crying because his childhood friend was reaped, maybe we shouldn’t force these innocent kids in a trap and have them slaughter one another on live media.”

No one would ever say that, as much as Dean wanted them to.

It was a hopeless battle, and there was nothing that could be done to win.

Suddenly, music from the screen began to play, Panem’s national anthem, and everyone’s skin jumped. The miners moved closer, drawn to the TV’s artificial glow like moths to a lantern.

Ash’s face went pale, and Dean knew that all that was on his mind was little Grace, Ash’s sister. “It’s starting,” Ash muttered, letting his hand slip from Dean’s shoulder, trailing into his pocket, and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

Before the butt of one even reached Ash’s mouth, Dean snatched the stick away. “Dude, you can’t smoke in a fucking coalmine.”

Ash shrugged. His hands were shaking, Dean noticed. “It’s wet, dude. We’re standing in a foot of water. It's not like a little puff is gonna burn the whole place down."

Dean considered it.

“Light me,” he muttered, putting the stolen cig up to his lips. Ash struck a match and a tiny red glow could be seen in the darkness. Dean inhaled, the nicotine taking action, and exhaled.

After Ash lit one for himself, Dean whispered, “Pass the pack around.”

There was a lot of smoke in the mine that early afternoon, and even more damp cigarettes floating on the water surface.

The screen flickered, and a man appeared. This man was the most famous man in the country. Every man, woman and child knew his face, because you don’t just forget or not know the face of the sadist president who kept the Games running for twenty-five dreadful, miserable years. You don’t forget the man who was one of the founders of the Games, who was responsible for the deaths of five hundred and fifty-two kids, and this year, another twenty-three.  
You don’t forget the face of the King of Hell. Because Panem _was_ a living Hell.

Dean didn’t say anything out loud, but in his head he was screaming “dirty-son-of-a-bitch!” Which was true. That’s all Crowley was to the people in 12. The devil.

Crowley was in his usual media attire—black suit that was fit for a funeral, and a smug smile on his bearded face. His hair was thinning, and Dean prayed that maybe he would drop dead of a heart attack on screen. It was worth a shot.

Just the sight of Crowley still breathing made Dean want to lean over to the side and toss up his insides.

There was a wave of sudden silence over the smoking miners as the president began to speak. The Panem anthem faded away.

“Citizens of the Capitol,” Crowley’s voice boomed, an accent dripping on his words, “People of Panem, I call of your attention, please.”

Afraid.

Everyone was afraid.

You could feel it in your chest like a vulgar song.

Twenty-four years of the Hunger Games, and this year everything was different.

This year, it was terrifying.

“Today, I bring an exciting announcement, regarding this years Games,” exclaimed Crowley, looking straight into the camera, “As this year marks the twenty-fifth anniversary since the Dark Days, since the rebellion of the people against the Capitol, and therefore, the very first Quarter Quell!” From the television, a roar erupted from the audience.

Dean took a long drag on his cigarette, which was starting to burn at his fingers.

“A quarter of a century ago, some of you may even remember, were the Dark Days, the unfortunate rebellion between the people of Panem and the Capitol. As a reminder to the people, that this was a grim mistake, we recognize that District 13 was destroyed. As a reminder, that this mistake should never occur again, that the Capitol should always remain in power, each district must send one boy and girl to compete to the death, where one of the twenty-four shall be claimed victor. Winner takes all.”

Crowley gave a dashing, sly grin as the TV audience cheered yet again.

Dean felt his blood boiling beneth his skin. It pounded in his ears like hurricanes to a beach.

“In celebration of every twenty-five years of the Games, the original Gamemakers made up a different set of rules—“

Different is always bad.

“—To shake things up every now and then. After all, what’s an anniversary without a little party?” The Capitol audience laughed.

“Everyone here is witnessing history, as we reveal the first envelope.”

An off screen hand offered Crowley a small, yellow box, which Crowley propped open and removed the first from the pile, marked with dark letters on the front, sealed with red wax: 1.

“Happy Quarter Quell, Panem!”

Ash was purely shaking, and it seemed the nicotine wasn’t helping in the slightest. Sweat was visible off his brow. “I can’t take it Dean… I can’t… They’re gonna kill my sister…"

Quickly, Dean swiveled his friend’s shoulders around so he was facing away from the television. Dean shook him. “Listen to me, Ash,” he said in a low, serious whisper, “There’s no way your sister is going into that arena, no matter what. She’s thirteen; she only has two slips with her name on it. Did she take any tesserae this year?”

Ash was crying now, his breathing staggered. “No… No I wouldn’t let her…”

“Two times, Ash,” Dean hissed, “She’s gonna be fine, I promise. She has no chance of being drawn from the reaping, and the Quell will not change this, I swear Ash. Are you listening to me? There's way more of us out there, more experienced and with a higher chance of being sent in. I promise you, Grace is making it through this year alive. Do you understand that?"

Ash hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah. I got it.”

He patted Ash’s back. “My name’s gonna be in there thirteen times this year, man. I took five tesserae. If anything, I’m the one they’re throwing in there, not Gracie. Gracie’s not going into the Games.”

“How do you know for sure?” Ash looked at Dean with glossy eyes. “Little kids are reaped all the time, Dean. How can you be so sure that Grace’s name won’t be drawn, because it’s damn possible. I've watched it happen before..." His voice faded as some memory came rushing back, of some twelve year old being reaped. Getting masacured on the first day. Dean saw it, too. Too many times.

He stood still for a second, thinking.

“Because you just gotta trust me, Ash.”

Dean faced the TV, just as Crowley was tearing open the envelope, and withdrew a slip of paper.

And the world watched as he read it.

The mines were no longer silent. Silence would not be heard over the sound of fifty hearts, pounding like thunder, scattered across a broken sky.

Dean found himself holding his breath.

And, unexpectedly, Crowley chuckled.

“For the very first, out of many Quarter Quells to come,” he said in a boastful tone, “The people of each district must vote on the children to be reaped, to remind Panem that they were the ones who chose to sacrifice their young to the rebellion.”

Immediately, there was chaos in the dark.

A woman began screaming off to his right. There was collective yelling, and a man Dean didn’t know was crying out “That’s betrayal! Betrayal! You piece of shit, I’m not betraying those kids!”

The noise was deafening, but Dean didn’t notice. His mind was still trying to grasp the concept, grab a hold of it, his hands so tight in his fists he was forming holes in his palms, and warm blood ran between his fingers.

Vote.

They had to _vote_.

Crowley continued. “On the day pervious to the reaping, each citizen will be called to voting booths placed within their district. Each vote will be accounted for in the lottery. You are all requested to vote for the ones you believe have the strongest chance of becoming this years victor.”

_They had to vote._

"On that day, more rules will be announced, to work out any confusion. I look foreword to this year."

They would be the ones responsible on which two suckers were going to go and die, like picking pigs on how much meat they had on their bones.

It was unfair.

Unfair, violent, outrageous…

 _“Panem today,”_ said Crowley, over the praise of his own crowd, and over the riots in the mines, _“Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.”_

And then the television screen when black, and Dean was left with nothing but the roar of confusion around him, and a sorry stub of a cigarette.

***

Dean left the mines early that day, and went home on his regular route.

All of the miners were released early, actually. The Peacekeepers decided that there wasn’t going to be much work done after the Announcement. It would most likely get cut from their paychecks, but Dean at this point didn’t mind. He just wanted to clear his head.

The sky was still grey and crying a light sprinkle, but he noticed that it was starting to grow heavy again, the drops of rain damping his dark blond (almost light brown, some would say) hair.

Dean walked on one of the dirt paths into town, his leather jacket on, the scene replaying over and over in his mind, the words becoming broken records.

_Out of many Quarter Quells to come…_

_Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever…_

It bothered him.

The idea of voting bothered him.

It was bad enough that the Hunger Games existed in the first place, but this…

He rubbed his neck again, frustrated.

Dean decided today that he needed to stop at the Hob and pick a few things up. Upon checking his pockets, he found that he had a bit of spare change from the last deer he and Sam had hunted and sold a few days ago.

His guitar needed new strings already. And besides, he wanted to check and make sure that his car was still there.

The Hob was probably Dean’s favorite part of District 12, along side with the forest on the opposite side of the electric fence. It had everything you needed; you could sell just about anything you wanted, and usually for okay prices.

Very few people in 12 lived above the harsh poverty line. Everybody gets the hard road. But people had some kind of mercy in 12, that’s just how life worked. The Hob was a large warehouse, an illegal black market that really shouldn’t exist under Panem orders, but it does. The Peacekeepers certainly don’t do anything about it, since 12 is the poorest district out of them all. They bent a few rules.

Dean liked the Peacekeepers positioned there as well. They weren’t harsh, and lightly regulated crime control. They attempted to make life easier for them, tried to make survival a more ideal possibility. Not only did that include keeping the Hob open and active, but that also meant they turned off the electric fence, allowing lots of people to go hunting and trapping. Many of them Dean had acquainted on several occasions.

And today, he happened to run into Garth.

The first thing he did at the Hob was purchase the strings, which he needed desperately. His acoustic had been suffering without the high E string for some time now, and the A was ready to snap. He missed playing it fully when it was up and alive, instead of it sounding sad and sick whenever he struck a chord.

Then he went for the car.

They kept it in the far back, and never once in all of these years has anyone considered buying it. No one except Dean Winchester, of course.

Dull black paint, standard transmission, a license plate number reading KAZ 2Y5. From what Dean knew about it, it was a 1967 Chevrolet Impala.  
The car was ancient, and Dean absolutely loved every single detail about it.

You never saw anyone driving cars around 12. People couldn’t afford too, and everything was within walking distance. They weren’t a necessity, in no way needed.

But this car was Dean’s first love.

The first time he ever laid eyes on the beauty was when he was five years old, and his dad took him to the market for the first time. He remembered being super excited, his eyes widening, his father having to hold him back before he could get his stubby fingerprints all over it.

He remembered the very first time Sam saw it, too, and how Sam held the same reaction Dean did. The excitement of seeing such a wonder with their own eyes.  
Sam, who was four, had asked Dean if they were going to own it one day.

Of course, little eight-year-old Dean had said, “Of course Sammy. This is gonna be ours, I can feel it! I’ll learn to drive it too, and then we can go anywhere! Anywhere we want, just the two of us.”

That agreement still stood, and Dean cracked a small smile as he remembered the day. Was it really ten years? There’s no way that time flew that fast.

They were really close to buying this car, too.

They’ve been racking up the change for so long, Dean was surprised that they didn’t already had the four hundred needed, but he knew that they were so close. A few extra rabbits and if Dean kept up working in the mines, it would be there’s soon enough.

As long as John never found out.

John would murder both of them if he ever found out about all that money in the jar.

Dean decided that when he got home, he was going to count it. Just to see how close they really were.

He could almost feel the keys pressing into his hand, the ignition running smoothly underneath him, the battle cry of the engine...

Like something out of a dream. A beautiful, beautiful dream.

This is when he ran into Garth. More like Garth found him, but either way, this is when they held conversation.

“When are you finally gonna buy this old clunker? You stare at it almost everyday.”

“Hey, Garth.”

At seventeen, Garth was one of the youngest Peacekeepers stationed in 12. He drifted around the Hob and wasted most of his time there, making conversation, buying goat’s milk and cheese. Sometimes, he and a few other Peacekeepers got together to run an open soup stand for the district. Some of the adults found him annoying with his age, but all around, Dean found him to be okay. Positive. Good with little kids, as he always carried around a sock puppet in his back pocket, entertaining them as they passed through. On a good day, you could hear tiny giggles echoing in the warehouse, Garth’s puppet in action, and not a single person could resist smiling.

Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, sighing. “Soon, I’m hoping.”

Garth beamed. “Good to hear. From what I’ve heard, she’s been around since before the Dark Days, way before the Dark Days, actually. She looks like she could use a proper home.”

Dean nodded, and gave a grin. “Yeah, that’s for sure.”

They both stood quietly for a few more moments, watching the Impala as if it might go somewhere if they dared turned away.

“So,” Garth said, his voice soft, “I’m assuming that they had the news playing down in the mines?”

“There was a riot about it. They let us off early. Not a big deal.”

“How’re you taking it?”

As a Peacekeeper, and as someone who wasn’t even a resident of District 12, Garth couldn’t be reaped. That was District 2’s arrangement. They supplied the law force, and once you became a part of it, you were out of the Games forever.

Even if Garth could be voted into the reaping, no one would. He was a scrawny, nerdy kid with no muscle, and not many brains. They were supposed to vote to win.

As for Sam and Dean…

Dean just rolled his shoulders. “Just another reaping to me.”

“Your last one?”

“Yeah.”

Garth bobbed his head. “And Sam?”

“Fourth.”

Their conversation died out from there, and they really didn’t say much. Garth made a couple of comments on the car, and Dean agreed, asking how Garth was doing in the force. Garth told him he liked 12 the best, and was hoping he could stay stationed there for longer. He said the people had good souls. They ended it with a handshake, and Garth wishing Dean good luck in the reaping in the following days, and took off, leaving Dean to stand by himself yet again.

He made his way home. The Winchesters had one of the closest houses to the fence, which they benefitted from. John would hunt and trap all day, and come back home before night settled. On the weekends, Dean and Sam would go out for four hours or so, just seeing what they could catch.

However, that also meant that their family lived in the Seam, the slums of 12. Not that Dean minded. It was a poorer side of town, but with the fence close by, there really wasn’t a downside. It just meant that they were poor, and usually, everyone was.

He got home, and hung up his jacket, and smell of rain and wood rushing to his brain, and he breathed it in deeply.

It smelled friendly and familiar, and he loved it.

“Sam?” he called out, “Sammy, you home?”

“In our room.”

The house was small and crowded, with only four rooms. The first was the kitchen area, where they had the old TV box and a table and a few kitchen utilities like an oven and an elderly fridge. Then there was the bathroom, then John’s room (which was off limits, all times of the day.)

And last, but not least, it was Sam and Dean’s room. Containing two cramped beds, one shitty-ass closest, and two punk ass kids. Nothing special. It was old and creaky, but of course the boys never complained. It was all they had.

Dean walked on into the room, to see Sam sitting with his lanky legs spread out on his bed, a heavy book seated in his lap. He noticed that Sam’s hair was starting to get long, too. Not the way Ash’s hair grew, which was into some kind of weird mullet, but in a nice way. It stooped about the middle of his ears and flayed out at the tips. Dean thought it was a really cute hairstyle for a fourteen-year-old kid.

He walked over and ruffled it, watching Sam smile as he did. “How was school, kid?”

Sam flipped the page of his book. “Good, as usual. Although history was cut because we had to watch the Announcement.”

“You guys saw it too, then, huh?”

“Dean, I’m pretty sure all of Panem was watching. It’s the first Quarter Quell, after all.”

 _Out of many Quarter Quells to come…_ Crowley’s voice haunted.

Dean shivered at the memory, and sat down on the edge of Sam’s bed.

“You nervous about it?”

Sam turned his eyes from his book, meeting Dean’s with confusion. “Should I be?”

Did he have to be? This was Sam Winchester they were talking about.

Sammy…

Of course the first thing Dean thinks about is Sammy.

Little baby brother Sam, age fourteen, super smart and working his way through school.

Little baby brother Sam, who walked along side Dean through the woods at dusk to shoot down deer for their next meal.

Strong, clever Sam, whose name was entered in the Reaping’s four times this year. And not only that, but an extra two times, since anyone between the ages of twelve to eighteen could exchange tesserae—one person’s meagre, grain and oil for a year—for another extra entry, because Sam was selfless like that and stupid. Of course Dean did the same thing and took five tesserae. But it’s different when it was your little brother who took on the task, when you’re trying so hard to keep them alive and raise them when your father was so wrapped up in the past and constantly drinking his sorrows away.

It’s different when it’s your baby brother. The one who you had to protect, no matter what, because you’re just not sure how you would live without them.

And you know they have a chance at a good life.

“Sam, look at you. The entire district knows that you’re one of the best hunters out there, and that makes you an easy vote on their ballots.”

“Well,” Sam clucked, “So are you."

Sam had a good point, and Dean relaxed a little bit, releasing just how tense he had been.

“Dean, you shouldn’t worry about me. There are plenty of older and stronger kids that are more likely to get more votes than me, and have a higher chance of being picked. Just because I’m good at what I do doesn’t mean that everyone in 12 will want me in that arena.”

Dean sat still, thinking.

“Okay,” he finally said, his heart calming down, “Okay. But you better be right, little brother, or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Sam laughed and lightly punched Dean’s arm.

“Just another reaping, right?”

Dean smiled again, before remembering something, and the smile only grew.

“So, the Impala,” he said excitedly, “I think we’re getting pretty close now. I think we almost have enough.”

“What?” Sam lurched himself upright, “You’re not serious?”

Snickering, Dean clasped Sam’s shoulder. “Dude, dead serious.”

Simultaneously, the two boys practically leaped up from the bed, Sam’s book falling lopsided on the quilt. Dean opened the closest door, and Sam rummaged around old shirts, getting to the floorboards, fingers lingering for the loose one.

“Got it,” Sam said as Dean heard a few creaks, and Sam produced a small pickle jar, the weight showing on just how hard it was to lift out into the open.  
They couldn’t stop grinning like idiots, and carefully placed the jar on Sam’s bed, before emptying the contents.

“I’ll take bills, you count coins,” Dean commanded, immediately sorting the money into its designated piles. Sam didn’t even argue, because counting change wasn’t as fun, but he got started, whispering numbers under his breath, doing mental math. Dean shuffled the bills through his hands, the number clock in his head rising.

This was money that they had been saving for ten years. It all started with a few pennies and a tiny spark of hope, and it turned into something amazing, like Christmas morning. They made a promise that one day that car would be theirs, and maybe, just maybe, today was that day.

Dean counted two hundred and forty in bills, most of them collected with his pay from the mines. Sam got a hundred seventeen, with sixteen cents left over.

They counted it again.

“We’re forty-three sort,” Sam said, disappointment in his declaration. But Dean didn’t come across as defeated. Instead, he looked pleased.

“We’re close though, Sammy,” he whispered, filing the money back into the jar. “If we can hunt a moose and a few squirrels, and if I keep working the mines…” He did a quick calculation, subtracting money they still needed for food and for Sam’s schooling.

“By the end of this month, I think.”

Wide smiles spread from ear to ear on them both.

“Sam, this is gonna be your last reaping ever, cause once we get that car, we can go anywhere. We can leave this place behind… Sam, we never have to watch the Games after this…”

It went really quiet, and Sam’s smile fell. “That’s right.”

They both hated the Hunger Games. They didn’t know anyone who enjoyed them, but every since Benny, there was a burning passion.

And now they could leave.

They could do it.

Leave Panem, where fear would no longer whip them from behind, never having to watch another friend die on television, travel. Be free. 

Be wanderers of the world.

Dean pulled Sam in for a hug, and they stood in each other’s embrace for a while, laughing, and Sam tearing up. This was their dream, and now that dream was slowly becoming their reality.

Dean also noticed just how tall Sam was getting, too. Despite their four-year age difference, Sam almost surpassed him.

It was amazing how much changed in ten years.

“Wanna go wrestle?” Sam suggested. Wrestling and sparring was something that they almost never got to do anymore, because John hated it and tried to forbid it, saying it was a kid’s game and that they would only hurt one another. The boys didn’t listen, and whenever John went out, they took opportunity to practice.  
Sam was usually the winner, but Dean would never refuse the offer.

“Let’s go!”

They bolted out the front door, the rain still sputtering, making the ground soggy and muddy. The childish excitement grew.

There was nothing that wasn’t perfect about this day. They just about had the Impala, it was raining, and they were going to have some fun.

If the Announcement never happened, Dean would have considered this the best day ever, in the longest time.

But it did happen. So, he pushed it from his mind, and pretended like that bomb never exploded.

“Wanna take the first shot—“ A displacement of air was felt near Dean’s cheek, which he just avoided by leaning back slightly. Another millisecond and Sam’s roundhouse would’ve caught him.

“You’re getting slow, Dean!” Sam shouted, laughing, throwing a sidekick at Dean’s chest, which was easily blocked. Dean threw a punch, landing on Sam’s lower ribs.

The sparring went on like this, back and forth, occasionally breaking for a quick insult (“You fight like a baby, Dean!” “Oh, bite me Sam!”), releasing all of their energy, having the best time either of them had in a while.

It ended a half an hour later, when Dean had caught Sam off balance and kicked out a wobbly leg from underneath him. Sam fell into the mud, and before he could stand again, Dean was on top of him, one knee firmly pressing into Sam’s back. Sam struggled to get back on his feet, flailing his limbs in an attempt to hit his brother, but it was useless.

“That’s totally not fair!” Sam sputtered through the mud, and Dean just chuckled.

“You’re only saying that because I kicked your ass.” The pressure from his knee was released, and he helped Sam off the ground, wiping the wet dirt from his face and out of his hair. “C’mon, we better get you washed up before Dad gets—“

“Dean? Sam?”

The brothers froze in their tracks, and slowly turned around, only to be met with a pair of dissatisfied eyes, holding two rabbits by the rear legs.  
“Were you two fighting again?”

***

John was always yelling at them for something.

Usually, roughhousing was a constant no in his mind, but today it seemed especially bad. Maybe it was the Announcement. Maybe it was the obsession with Mom’s death, Dean wouldn’t know. The one thing that he did know is that he and Sam were always getting yelled at for something.

John yelling at them is exactly why they kept the car a secret.

If he ever found that heavy glass jar…

Sam decided to go to bed early that night, leaving Dean and his father up with the old television box on at a low volume. A whiskey glass was in John’s hand, and Dean had changed into a loose tank top and jeans. The weather was getting hot, despite all of the rain. Dean wondered if it was just something to do with 12’s output of CO2, messing up the atmosphere.

On the news they were recounting AD, all about the excitement for the Quell and theories about the arena, any highlights on who might possibly be voted in. There was a man from District 1 who they brought up, and even though Dean was barely listening, he heard the name and caught a small snippet of the newscaster’s story.

“—Lucifer Novak won the Games, what was it, six years ago already? A favorite amongst the Capitol, and people are wondering if his youngest brother is going to get voted in for this round. It would make it interesting, definitely, going in just like his brother. Cast--"

Dean reached for the remote and switched the TV off, rubbing his eyes. He was sick of hearing about the voting, about old tributes from however many years ago.  
John just glared at him. “Why’d you do that?”

“Dad, I hate the Games, you know that,” Dean grumbled. He felt tired already, although upon looking at the kitchen clock, it was only five past ten. “Doesn’t help when the media won’t shut up about it.”

Dean was seeing black spots dance in his vision now, and he blinked furiously to get rid of them, but they wouldn’t disappear.

John had switched the TV backed on, to Dean’s annoyance.

“C’mon, Dad, don’t be an asshole…” he didn’t notice that John’s whiskey glass had been drained, or that it was now filled again. He didn’t notice it, and he missed it. The first warning sign.

In a mummer between the affects of alcohol, John grumbled, “Don’t you lip off to me, boy.”

Dean wasn’t sure if it was his headache, or if he was just exhausted, but he felt a clot of anger well up in the back of his throat. He refrained himself from yelling, because he didn’t want to wake Sammy up. He had school the next morning.

“Dad, you’re getting drunk again. The Games aren’t even starting for—“

“Either of you could win, you know that?”

Dean caught his tongue, and nearly choked. At first, he wasn’t sure if he heard right, or if it was something on the television instead. His mind then began to wrap around the words more clearly, the slur and the voice.

He turned back to his father.

“What did you just say?” his whisper almost cracking, the anger welling now, like one of the bruises John once gave Dean’s cheek weeks ago.

But John heard it. “You or Sam… I bet that it’s going to be one of you two… The whole district knows that you two are the strongest, the fastest… They’re gonna vote, Dean…” Pause. “One of you is going in—“

Without knowing what he was doing, not registering his actions before they had started to happen, Dean stood up, and slapped the full glass from John’s hand. It came to a crash to the wooden floor, broken glass everywhere, dark liquid seeping into the cracks, under the furniture.

Dean leaned in close, and hissed, “Don’t you dare suggest that Sam could go into that arena, you son of a bitch. Don’t you dare think that Sam could get voted, and go out there, and become a monster. Because while you’re out hunting and getting wasted, I’m taking care of my baby brother. And I’m not gonna let him turn into something that he’s not.”

Dean stormed off, leaving the room, not careful enough to avoid getting a large glass shard caught in his heel. He didn’t notice, and didn’t care, because although his foot was bleeding and the cut was mixing with burning whiskey, John said one more thing that made Dean’s heart stop, that made him for the first time in years want to scream and lose himself and cry. It was faint, but clear, and the coldest thing that Dean had ever heard from that bastard of a man.

“I should’ve left you to burn in that fire, Dean.”

But Dean didn’t cry, as much as he wanted to.

He didn't scream, he didn't lash out, as much as he wanted to, wished he could.

Because now, Sam was awake, standing in their bedroom doorway, dressed in button up moose pajamas that he was probably too old for now but still continued to wear. He looked tired.

He and Dean made eye contact.

“Are you and Dad fighting again?” Sam sleepily asked.

Dean didn’t answer. Just made a beeline it for the closet, grabbed his acoustic, and muttered, “Just go back to bed, Sam,” and walked outside.

The rain had finally come to a full stop, which was a nice change. The air still clung to the freshness left behind and the cool crisp that hit the back of Dean’s throat was oddly relaxing. Clutching the guitar’s neck tightly, he wove his way on the path, looking for a good spot away from the house. That’s usually what he did if he and John got caught in an argument, which was often. Music was a beautiful way to blow off steam.

Soon enough Dean found an excellent tree that had sheltered a dry spot during the rainfall. He took a seat on the soil and leaned against it’s bark, and started to restring his guitar, excited to the bone that he was finally able to play with new ones, especially since the old ones were so frail.

He had no wire clippers to cut the remaining strings off after it had been all tuned up, they were sticking out at odd angles at the top of the neck, but he didn’t mind that. He would cut them off later. For the moment, though, he just wanted to play. Anything, any song.

Dean started strumming lightly, random chords passing through his fingers until he had settled on a progression that he felt content with. It was calming, and slowly, he felt his remaining anger melt away.

But the memory of it all still stuck. There was some disbelief that his own father would say something as cruel as that either of his sons could have the chance to win the Games. That one of them actually would.

Dean remembered what Sam had said earlier that day, and it made him feel a little bit better. _Just because I’m good at what I do doesn’t mean that everyone in 12 will want me in that arena._ One hundred percent true, but Dean couldn’t shake a feeling that nagged him.

He plucked the fresh strings in a soothing rhythm. The key was B minor. Dark and quiet, it was his favorite key to play in. He had come up with some good melody lines with it. Now all he needed was Sammy to pick up learning a drum kit.

He couldn’t help but laugh at that last thought.

Dean let his mind stray, daydreaming in his own music. He thought about the reaping, and imagined that neither his nor Sam’s were drawn, the relief spreading through his body, not having to worry. The regret that two poor souls were going to become lambs for slaughter, but the thankfulness that would be in Dean’s heart would almost cloud it.

Then he thought about what would happen after. They would have enough money to buy the car. They would. Sam would ride shotgun, Dean would drive, and they would leave 12. They would leave the dusty mines behind, a poverty-stricken life, and a drunken father who was still haunted by the house fire that killed their mother fourteen years ago.

_I should’ve left you to burn in that fire…_

Sam didn’t remember anything about Mom. Being six months old at the time of her death, he only knew what she looked like in the few pictures that hadn’t burned away. But Dean remembered her, clearly. He remembered how beautiful she was. Golden blond hair, kind and gentle eyes that match her personality. No matter how many times little Dean cried, Mary Winchester was always there, with a Band-Aid and a healing kiss. She would always tell Dean what a brave little warrior he was, and immediately Dean would smile and laugh.

Mary was a good mother, and Dean wished that he got to know her for longer. He wished that Sam got to know her too.

He remembered John before, too. He was a good dad, excited that he had a good family, even if they were really poor at the time. He didn’t care. He would always happily play games with Dean, hold Sam and rock him to sleep, Mary standing on the side, laughing her beautiful laugh.

And now here they were, fourteen years later. A little broken family.

“I figured I would find you out here somewhere.”

Dean turned his head, almost expecting John to be standing there. His eyes found Sam’s button up moose pajamas instead.

Sam had put on his hunting boots, and they clashed with the rest of his childish outfit. Not that Dean cared. A small smile still worked its way on his face. “Hey, tiger. What’re you doing out so late?”

Dean knew the answer, but Sam just shrugged, and took a seat by his older brother. “Couldn’t sleep,” he finally said.

“Sorry we woke you up.”

“Nah, it’s okay.”

They sat together in a bit of silence, Dean’s strumming hand motionless. The stars were beginning to really peak out, now. It was beautiful and made the sky seem speckled with little fairies. At least that’s what Sam used to say when he was really little. Dean chuckled. Dean secretly liked to think that they were angels, watching over them. Their mom would tell them that all the time.

“What?” Sam asked.

“Nothing. Just remembering some old stuff when we were kids.”

Sam nodded, a smile creeping onto him. “We still are kids, Dean.”

_Either of you could win, you know._

Dean froze, his grin falling. Sam saw.

“What did Dad tell you that’s got you so upset, man? I tried to ask him but he wouldn’t sa—oh, Jesus Dean, you’re bleeding!”

Dean glanced down at his foot, just recollecting that he had some glass in his skin, prodding, a sword buried to it’s hilt. Blood was still draining out of his heel, some of it already beginning to dry and harden. Dean just shrugged. He didn’t pay attention to it after he left the house. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point, you jerk.” Sam crawled towards it and hoisted the foot into his lap, making Dean cringe.

But Dean hid the pain well. “Bitch,” he grumbled back, and Sam couldn’t repress his smile down. To Dean’s displeasure (and without any warning), Sam ripped the shard from the wound, and Dean cried out, swearing. Sam laughed.

“You’re such a baby, Dean!”

Dean just pouted. “Well yeah, you gave me no ‘heads up’ sort of deal.”

With a piece of the moose PJ top, Sam bandaged Dean’s heel, giving the cut some cushioning. Now Sam’s arm was bare from the elbow down from where he had ripped it. “Really, it’s gonna be infected Dean unless you wash it and look after it, cause I’m not coming to be your medic in the mines. I’ve got school.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it kiddo.” Dean sighed. Sam had already forgotten the question about what made him storm out here, and Dean was glad. He didn’t want to repeat any of it to Sam. One angry son at Dad was enough.

They made their way back to the house, to find John passed out in the living room, right where Dean left him. The shattered whiskey glass still remained on the floor. He sent Sam back to bed and swept it up, John snoring loudly as he did.

Dean had half a mind to dump the glass in his lap, and then decided against it. He was on a good streak for avoiding beatings, and he had no intentions of breaking it.

By the time he got back to their room, Sam was fast asleep, arms spread out wide, mouth open slightly. Dean gave a small smile.

That was his little brother. His. Little Sammy, who was strong and smart for his age, but who would always be his little brother. Dean pretty much raised him by himself since age four, since he carried him out of that burning house himself, John trying to save Mary and failing. Since Dean had to pack Sammy’s lunch every morning, making sure Sam got all the good stuff. Since Dean dropped out of school to earn extra money so that they could afford to keep sending Sam. Sam and him, brothers until the end, hunting and fighting and just them against the world, against the Games and the Capitol.

Dean didn’t know what he would do if he ever lost him.

Swiftly, he leaned in and gave Sam a quick kiss on his forehead, knowing Sam would hate it if he were awake. The sleeping boy just turned onto his side, readjusting.

Dean stripped down and threw on a pair of pajama pants and a clean t-shirt, and fell onto his own bed, hands clasped behind his head. It was closer to ten forty now, according to Dean’s watch, but Dean didn’t feel tired. He tossed himself around for a while; trying his best to fall asleep, but it was useless. His mind was too alert, stirring with thoughts that he just couldn’t shove out.

He kept thinking about the Games, and about what John had said. It was probably true; despite 12’s reputation of having their tributes die first. In twenty-five years, 12 has never produced a single victor. Just fifty dead kids, and one hundred crying parents. That’s all those Games were good for; causing people to cry.

Suddenly, Dean had a thought. He imagined that it was Sam that got reaped. That people had actually scribbled “Sam Winchester” on their ballets. He imagined Sam being taken away from him, Dean being helpless to stop his little brother from going into the guillotine, all by himself with nobody to coach him through it.  
He imagined Sam putting on a fake smile for the cameras until they threw him into Hell. He imagined Sam, fourteen-year-old Sam, fighting for his life. Constantly on the run, and from what? Other kids, who wanted the same thing he did.

To escape.

But there is no escape from the Games.

There’s only one way to get home.

Dean flinched in his bed.

Because now the thoughts were coming in more vividly, his imagination getting ahead, painting a brutal picture of a young boy, with a bow in his hand, arrow cocked, picking off children one by one. At each release, a canon fired.

At each release, someone died.

Someone’s parents cried out in pain, brothers and sisters would watch the television, tears sticking to their faces, as they witness the murder of their sibling.

Sam was always good with a bow and arrow. It was a specialty he possessed. He was silent, sneaky, a much better hunter than Dean was. Dean would take out the shotgun to take down a deer and scare away any other possible prey. Sam was different. Sam was good at what he did.

He imagined Sammy killing someone as easy as striking down a deer. Silently. Without remorse.

He imagined Sam actually winning those Games.

It should be a good thing. After all, there was the constant fear that he would be killed, and Dean would be shaking, paranoid in the middle of the night. Wondering if he would see Sam’s face, still going, the next day. If Sam made it through, all that fear would be gone. Dean would get Sam back, and they would live in the Victor’s Village, never fearing the Games ever again.

But you can’t escape the Games.

They would haunt Sam, that’s for sure. He would be back in 12, but not as the smart, innocent boy that Dean knew him as. Not the kind boy, who pulled glass out of Dean’s foot, bandaging it with moose pattern pajamas.

Sam Winchester would die in that arena, and the only remains to come back would be a faint shadow of him. A skin puppet, worn by the monster that consumed his soul.

You go in, you come back out a demon fresh out of hell.

And that was the most horrifying thing to Dean.

Sam could win. He just wouldn’t be Sam anymore.

But Dean wouldn’t let that happen.

Yes, they wouldn’t be able to afford the Impala until after this years reaping, but there was no guarantee that either of them would be voted in as tribute. Sam was right. There were plenty of older, more experienced kids in 12 that held a good chance of getting out of that bloodbath. Besides, Dean made a promise. This was going to be Sam’s last reaping ever, and he wasn’t going into that arena. Dean would make sure of that, if it was the last thing he did.

He wouldn’t just sit back and watch his little brother become a monster.

Not like how he watched Benny…

Dean shook off the thought, and gave his watch another glance. It was nearing one am, and he had work tomorrow. Slowly, he suppressed the memory of when he was twelve, of when they ripped his best friend away from him. Slowly, Benny’s bloody death in the nineteenth Hunger Games had dissolved into a murky fog.

He wouldn’t lose Sam like that too.

Dean fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Voting Day**

Although the square was packed tightly, a cup overfilling with too many people, there was little to be heard. There should have been lots of noise, to be honest. People in 12 found it hard to keep their mouths shut, especially in times of nervousness and anxiety. Today possessed a hauntingly quiet, though, as if nobody really had anything to say. It was something strange and awful and alien, and Dean knew those were all bad signs.

Different was always bad.

Maybe it was because they were all waiting, anticipation riding on all their shoulders, weighing them down. Or perhaps it was that they couldn’t hold off on betraying their fellow peers any longer, and two names would have to be written down no matter what. That was the scary thing. They had to make a choice, from hundreds of kids, they had to make a simple decision that would give them nightmares for the rest of their lives. They had to choose who would go fight a war in hell.

Both in the metaphorical and literal sense.

The arena was the lake of fire, the final destination.

The stage for tomorrow’s reaping had already been set up at the top of the square, with a giant television screen standing tall behind it, showing no picture. It served two purposes: a bullhorn for President Crowley to get the voting rules across Panem and the twelve districts, and for the reaping, where they’ll air the same video they always did every single year. Dean was sick of that video. Every time he watched it, he could feel hatred raging inside his chest, and it got harder to breathe. Because he knew exactly what the Games were capable of, what they could take away. Every time he watched that video, he remembered Benny.

Benny with a clever smile on his face, who was Dean’s role model, Dean’s best friend. Benny, who was two years older and got reaped at the age of fourteen. Benny, who found Dean’s face in the sea of children, gave him a sly wink, and made his way to the stage. Dean remembered that sinking feeling his heart got when he went to say goodbye in the town hall, where he sat sobbing, Benny just holding his hand, and telling him over and over again, “Don’t you worry, little brother. It’s just a part of life, but it ain’t the end of the world.”

And they took him away, poor Benny, who fought so hard and then died on the fifth day of his Games.

_There was so much blood…_

Dean turned his attention back to the stage. A new addition was added on this year. Voting booths. Something of course was never necessary until now. There were nine, all lined up neatly, each booth meant for a different age group. Dean stood still in line 2 with the rest of the eighteen year-olds, and every now and again he would scan the crowd to his right, searching for Sam’s lanky legs and long hair in line 6. However, Sam must have been buried somewhere with all the other girls and boys his age, because no matter how long Dean looked, he just couldn’t spot him. He gave up after a while, and gave a glance to his left.

In line 1 were the adults, the people who no longer qualified to be tributes. Line 9, on the other side of the square, was the line for the children who couldn't be reaped yet, little dirty faces that he couldn't see, and quite frankly, did not want to.

Dean saw a few familiars, though, of the adults. Ash was up ahead. Bobby Singer, who was pretty much an uncle to both Sam and Dean, was close by. Bobby was in his usual clothing of a faded baseball cap to shield his aging eyes from the sunlight, plaid shirt, old brown vest and ragged jeans. Dean thought about calling out to him, to give him a wave, but the silence of the district was just too deafening, and Dean had no intentions of being the one to bring it to a shatter. So he left Bobby be. He would catch up to him later in the day.

Dean did another scan of the line, when his eyes came to rest on his father, much closer to the back. He was wearing his leather jacket (the same one Dean tended to steal and wear to work when John was either out hunting or too drunk to notice it was missing), and seemed to be suffering from a massive headache, rubbing at his forehead and squinting. _Serves him right,_ Dean couldn’t help but think to himself, almost laughing. He stopped immediately when his fresh black eye pained, and he winced. Gingerly, he placed his fingers on it, tracing the bruise over, feeling the damaged skin.

Last night had been a rough one, and he was trying to repress the memory. It had been a simple mistake, really. Dean had gotten back from work late, much later than he probably should’ve, on an overtime shift, when Sam had already gone to bed and John had brought out a new bottle of liquor. Dean tried to slip past his dad, soundlessly, thinking that perhaps John had already fallen asleep in his chair with the TV on again. Then Dean noticed something.

It was a newscast from the Capitol, where some lady--with her hair in a strange blue and pink mohawk, her eyes heavily encased with eyeshadow--was giving more talk on the Hunger Games and predictions for the rules that were to later be announced the following day, as well as possible outcomes of the votes from the Career Districts. At first, Dean hadn’t been interested, and searched the coffee table for the remote to turn it off, when something else caught his eyes and ears.

The woman was speaking. “Even more so, it is likely for the young Castiel Novak to be voted into this round of the Games after an exclusive interview with the nineteenth Hunger Games victor, Lucifer Novak—“

So. _He_ was the victor that year.

Dean had felt his heart skip a beat.

The television then showed some footage of a man waving at a large audience. Dean assumed him to be this Novak guy, and suddenly, Dean got a flashback.

This man, who was happy and waving, with his dirty blond hair and slightly scarred face, was the one who had slaughtered Benny after all.

A spear. That’s how Benny died, when Lucifer put it straight through his throat.

So Dean stood frozen in the living room that night, remote in hand, unable to turn it off, as he watched his best friend’s killer, alive and breathing, and happy.

Dean felt very sick all of the sudden.

But then the footage cut to someone else, someone years younger.

He was a boy, probably around Dean’s age. He looked nothing like the older Novak, with his dark, messy hair and softer face.

However, it was this boy’s eyes that really caught Dean off guard, and that was because they were blue.

A piercing blue that looked as if it could rip through souls, a hardened blue that spoke in volumes. _Crystals_ was the word Dean was looking for. His eyes were made of pure crystals.

And they were quite beautiful. And quite strange.

The video was of this boy at an archery range, standing with a long bow in his left hand and arrow cocked back in his right. His fingers appeared to be rather relaxed, even over the strain and pressure the weapon was enforcing. It reminded Dean of Sam when he took aim at deers out in the woods, the focus in their eyes the same. The boy’s brow furrowed for a split second, as if doing a quick mental calculation, and he released the shot.

It hit his target dead on.

But before Dean could give a low whistle of amazement under his breath, the boy drew another arrow in a quarter of an instant, and shot again.

And, in a Robin Hood fashion, split his previous arrow clean in half.

Dean’s jaw just about dropped and hit the floor.

The camera was still on this boy, who gave a small, yet sweet smile at his work, and swung the bow across his shoulders, and just walked off.

There were a few reporters chasing after him, firing off questions, but the boy didn’t answer them. Just kept walking.

Confident in stride.

“Castiel Novak, age seventeen, District 1.”

The woman newscaster with the weird hair went on, and she went away and blabbed about other things, but Dean just stood there, awe struck.

Castiel.

Really, what kind of a name was Castiel?

But there was something that Dean rather liked about it.

He switched the TV off. That’s when his dad had woken up, still wasted off his rocker, and yelled at Dean for being home so late. Dean told him that he usually got home from work late, and that John was just being overdramatic.

Then John got into the Games.

He shouted at Dean that it was either him or Sam, there was no getting around it.

“Well it’s not gonna be Sam! So you might as well start saying my fucking name, Dad! I’m not letting Sam into that murder fest, because he can win, but when he does, he’s gonna be inhuman. You don’t just waltz in there and expect to come back the same person!”

Dean had forgotten about keeping his voice down. Poor Sam had crawled out of bed to see what was going on, quiet enough that neither father nor brother noticed he was watching.

“You wouldn’t be able to win anyways, Dean,” John spat in his drunken manner, “Why the hell was I thinking that? Sam was always the better out of you two, Sam always was smarter and a better hunter! I bet you wouldn’t even last one day in the arena—“

And that’s when Dean had taken the first swing, nailing John square in the jaw. Dean swore he heard something crack under the weight of his fist. He didn’t even care.

“Shut up!” Dean cried. There were tears burning his eyes, “Just _shut up!”_

But John wouldn’t stop there. “Sam wouldn’t come back a monster, Dean. He would come back a hero. Don’t you see?”

Dean could handle his own father telling him that he should've died a long time ago. Dean could suck it up when John told him that he was worthless and the lesser of the two sons.

But he would not stand for his own father talking about Sammy like a pit bull destined for a fighting ring.

Because that wasn't Sammy.

 

“You fucking son of a bitch, you shut up about my brother!” Dean lashed out again, this time tackling John to the ground, getting on top of him, punching wildly. John managed to block most of them. After all, he was the one who taught Dean how to fight hand-to-hand in the first place, he would know his movements. But the few that Dean could land, he made sure they hurt like the devil.

“I won’t let them take Sam!” Dean screamed, half of it being a sob. This was the first time in a long time he had ever cried like this. Had ever  _broke_ like this. Just being so fed up with all the shit his father had said, with the fear always creeping that it might just be Sam fighting for his life out there, and Dean couldn’t imagine a world without his little brother.

There _was_ no world beyond that.

Of course, John punched back, and he punched hard, resulting in giving Dean fresh cuts on the lips and the black eye, some welts all over his torso.

At some point, minutes later, Dean was on the floor, covering his head and holding his ribs tenderly, John standing above him. Dean was still crying, John was winding up for a kick. Sam starting to weep in the shadows, still not making a sound.

“You’re too much of a coward to kill anyone in the Games, Dean.” John put a heavy foot into Dean’s stomach, and Dean gasped as the air escaped him. “You were always useless. Why couldn’t you be more like Sam…”

And that was it.

The final trigger that set of that rocket, of a little boy who had enough, of a dog who had been kicked one to many times.

Dean Winchester was not a helpless animal.

Not anymore.

_“Why couldn’t you be more like Mom, you bastard!”_

And that got John to stop. Pause in the moment.

Dean carried on. “Mom wouldn’t want this. Mom was gentle, Mom wanted the two of us to go to school, to become something great. Not to become your _fucking soldiers_. Mom wouldn’t want our family to be this way, Dad.”

He braked for a breath of air, his lungs struggling.

“She wouldn’t want Sammy to go… She wouldn’t want either of us to go. And if she were still alive, you wouldn’t either…”

Dean collapsed, breathing heavily out of exhaustion. He was trembling, shiver, blubbering like a lost youngster.

"I just wanted to make you proud, Dad..."

Sam came out of the dark and fell beside him, lifting Dean’s head into his chest, holding him close. In the dim light the house offered, his eyes were red and his cheeks were shiny.

John left the house that night, didn’t come back until the early morning. Sam had tended to Dean’s fresh wounds.

And now they were here, with Dean staring at his father, the anger still inside.

Dean tried to find Sam a second time, and still with no success. Dean wondered if he was nervous. Probably not. Dean was always the worrier. Sam had better things on his mind.

Dean checked his watch.

12:03 pm.

The screen on the stage began to flicker rapidly, and whatever noise might have been disrupting the square was now at rest. It reminded Dean of Announcement Day down in the mines, of the cigarette smoke that wafted through the musty air, of the sticks that littered the water.

He was dying to take another drag.

This was showtime.

President Crowley’s face appeared, wearing his black suit, a smug smile on his face. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he spoke loudly, with authority and pleasure ringing proudly, “Boys and girls of all ages. Welcome to the first step of the first ever Quarter Quell, twenty-five years of the Hunger Games and counting. Welcome to Voting Day. A day where you personally get a chance to participate in the fate of the Games—“

“It’s always been personal,” Dean muttered softly. A few of his peers had heard him, turned to him, and nodded quietly in agreement.

“—and have a chance to watch your district come out on top. However, just before we can allow this exciting election to commence, there are some rules each voter must abide by.”

Crowley held in his hands the same yellow envelope that had been opened on AD, the one with the red seal (now broken), and the black 1 on the front. He reopened it and pulled out the papers yet again, reading them over, taking his time.

Tick tock.

“The first rule,” he started, voice booming, “Each voter must write a legible name of both a male and female. These males and females must exist, and must be in residence of your home District. False names will be found out, and will result in heavy consequences.”

There went Dean’s plan to just scribble down some fake ID, having to betray nobody and having no guilt on his chest. He kept listening.

“Second rule; tributes must be in the age groups between twelve and eighteen, just as it has always been, and always will function. Unless another Quarter Quell in the future calls for otherwise actions." He chuckled at his own little joke.

“The third rule on this list is that voting past tributes who came out of the Games as victors in previous years, is forbidden. However, that does not mean that goes for the same for their family members or siblings to be entered. That is acceptable.”

 _Castiel_.

That was Dean’s first thought. After all, they had been talking all over the news on how much potential the kid had, how he could bring home glory just as his older brother before him did. He wondered, if maybe, Lucifer Novak was concerned for Castiel’s safety, just as Dean was for Sam’s.

But then again, the Novaks had come from District 1. They were part of the Careers—Districts 1, 2, and 4, who trained their kids their whole lives to be in the Games, since the moment they could hold a gun properly.

Brainwashed from childhood, those kids were born to believe that dying in the Hunger Games was the best way to go, an honourable death.

Dean called bullshit.

There was nothing honourable about the Games. Just a recap of a failed rebellion.

It was considered illegal by Capitol records, pre-training, but they never did stop the Careers from doing so. It was what made the Games entertainment.

But he wondered about this Castiel character.

Was he scared, too?

Crowley moved on with the rules. “The votes will not be casted into a lottery, rather they will be counted out by hand. Whichever boy and girl receives the most votes will be reaped. However, if circumstance allows and two or more children of the same gender have the same amount of votes, their names will be voted on for a second round. This time, by a show of hands, and not anonymously.”

Dean swallowed hard. That would be the worst, and he prayed that above everything it else it would not come to that. It was one thing having to turn against other kids, kids you grew up with and kids you were watching grow up. It was another if they saw you, watched you, raise your hand, and condemn them personally. That was the form of true betrayal, and Dean already felt guilt rise from it.

Hopefully, it would not have to come to that.

“And, finally, the fifth instalment of this exciting new process, is something that we like to call a prize.”

The crowd was absolutely still at that word. _Prize_. It held some kind of power that drew people to it, in some type of hopeful conspiracy. Like gambling. The stakes were high, but whatever was behind the magical door was worth it, worth losing everything for just a single shot of what might be the greatest thing to ever happen to you.

The air was uneasy. Tense.

“This year,” Crowley’s smile widened, “instead of _just_ the victor being rewarded for showing their bravery, courage, and skills, and putting them to action for the sake of survival, we are inviting the triumphant district to join in, to bask in the glory as well. Along with having their tribute return home, the winning district will receive two years worth of food, drinkable water, and clothing for each citizen. Children will be given new toys. There will be shelters built for those without homes, new supplies such as blankets and cooking items will be passed around. There will be a new found sense of community. That is your prize for the first Quarter Quell, the twenty-fifth Hunger Games!”

The people of 12 actually broke out cheering, so suddenly that Dean actually jumped. He saw they all wore a more modern expression on their faces.

Glee.

Like a little child on Christmas morning, and 12 hasn’t had Christmas in a very long time.

The tension that Dean was feeling seemed to have been released and flown someplace else, because it was no longer endured. It was replaced by a new energy. One that was still nervous and shaky, but fuelled with a high voltage thrill ride.

“Vote to win, my dear fellows. The Games are on! And _may the odds be ever in your favour.”_

The screen went black, and Crowley was no more.

There was a large rise of chatter amongst the people, and Dean saw the kids in front of him discussing the situation, who they were going to vote. Dean didn’t catch the names. At one point, though, he swore that someone had said the name “Winchester.”

The line moved, but slowly. Of course, the idea of a prize was exciting, but the decision of who to vote in was a different matter completely. Dean tired to think of names. Any names at all that would come off the top of his head, but there were none. He stood there, blanking out. There was one name though...

It took a while, Dean estimated an hour, before he finally got to the booth. The boys in front of him had taken their time, and one had been shaking. But when they left, Dean found himself stuck in the same hole. Trapped. A rat in a cage, and Dean didn't like a single moment of it.

The table had a few different items on it. There were three ballpoint pens (all black), a couple hundred slips of paper, and a Peacekeeper standing by, holding onto a box, where more papers had been tossed into. All with scribbled names.

The Peacekeeper was one that Dean didn’t know, but one he recognized. He was older, perhaps in his fifties, had darker skin, and a stern face that seemed to fit lovely with his white uniform. Dean would see him on night patrol sometimes on his way back from the mines, but they had never spoken.

The Peacekeeper explained to Dean that he needed to follow the rules of one male’s and one females name, that he would be watching to see if these names were fake by checking a list of children in 12 ages twelve through eighteen. He asked Dean if he understood. Dean numbly nodded his head.

The Peacekeeper told him there was no time limit.

And now, Dean was faced with a challenge. A slip of paper sat in front of him, and he twirled it in his right hand, thinking and thinking hard. Who was he to decide who should die? 12 has never won the Games, they really stood no chance.

He gave it more thought, and wrote down the only name ringing in his head.

_Dean Winchester._

That was the only one he felt content putting down.

Voting for himself had nothing to do with pride. It didn’t even have to do with the fight he and John had last night. This wasn’t about proving John wrong, it was about making sure that it wasn’t some other sorry sap, some twelve year old, who had to suffer it all.

It made one less vote for Sam.

Now Dean stood there and gave it more thought. He didn’t have many girl friends. In fact, he didn’t have many friends for that matter. Benny was dead, and sure, there was Ash and Garth and Sam. When he was still in school, he had dated plenty of girls (good times), but once he got working in the mines, there was no time for that anymore. But there had to be someone he knew of.

And there was.

She wouldn’t have much chance, if it came to her actually being in the Games. But she was so small, so tiny and inexperienced, that there wouldn’t be anyone else putting her name in.

He wrote down Grace’s name.

Little Gracie.

"I'm sorry, Ash," Dean whispered to no one, "But I'm keeping my promise. She's staying home."

Dean just prayed to whatever higher power that roamed out there—if there was such thing— that that would be her only vote.

He folded his paper and handed it to the Peacekeeper, with a sad smile. “Here ya go, officer.” It was placed in the box, along with all the other votes. The Peacekeeper nodded back.

“Take care of that eye, son.” He sounded a bit concerned. Friendly.

Dean chuckled. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

***

The next order of business was to locate Sam, so Dean went on over to line six, and stood near the back, watching the kids slowly move up. He saw a few familiar faces. One was of a girl named Jessica, who Sam seemed to be completely infatuated with. Dean smiled at it. She was pretty, and Sam talked highly of her, and no matter how great of a hunter Sam was, he was always the shy one around girls.

Not too long afterwards, he saw his brother wave at him, and jog towards him, giving a half grin.

“So,” Dean spoke up, “Too soon to ask who was on your ballot?”

Sam just gave him a glare. “I’m pretty sure six seconds is too soon, Dean.”

The two boys shared a snigger at the comment, Dean thinking it was rather clever, and went off in search of Bobby and their dad, who they stumbled upon a few minutes later. The first thing that came from Bobby’s mouth was “Good lord, Dean, what did you do to that eye of yours?”

Out of the corner of his vision, Dean noticed that John had suddenly looked towards the ground, as if something interested him there.

 

Already ashamed.

However, Dean just shrugged. “It was a mining mishap. Some idiot didn’t look when he was swinging his pick axe and I got it full in the face. It’s pretty okay now. Healing is picking up the pace."

Bobby just sighed. “Idjit,” he muttered from under his breath, and Dean smiled.

Bobby and John got into conversation about hunting, and if the quail would still be out and around during this time in the season. The Winchester sons only half listened, their minds still on the names they had chosen to write down. Sam had a strange expression on his face, his eyebrows furrowed. Every now and again he would give a glance over his shoulder, back towards the booth, as if he had forgotten something. Or had done something terribly wrong, and now the regret was settling in. Dean wanted to brush it off, and then thought differently. Sam was a happy-go-lucky personality. Anything else was at least somewhat suspicious.

Suspicious was bad.

 

 _Different_ was bad.

“—That Croatoan virus I heard was making a come back,” Bobby was saying, and John was shaking his head.

“Bobby, it hasn’t made an appearance in eleven years, I think they’ve managed to eliminate it.”

But Bobby Singer was a determined soul. “There’s been cases of it down in 5 and 6, but the news has been buried under all this hype about the Quell. It’s out there, Johnny-boy, trust me. I’m not usually wrong about these things.”

They debated it, meanwhile, Sam and Dean were making their escape. The two brothers made their way into the Hob, which was almost empty, save a few sellers that had already casted their votes. It seemed eerie, considering the market was usually packed. But they enjoyed the lack of people for the moment, and made their way to see the Impala. Still there, and the site of her brought twinkles in their tired eyes and wide grins to their lips. She looked almost good as new, and never had Dean been itching so bad to drive her. He had a brief image of just stealing it, Sam in the passenger seat, the windows rolled down. Freedom would be in that car, and they would drive so fast the world would turn into nothing more but a simple blur. Dean imagined that they would pull out either his or Sam’s name tomorrow, but when they called up the name, neither would walk to the stage. They already would have left 12 so far behind in the dust, just a memory, and then liberty would be the only thing left to control their lives. No more stupid Hunger Games. No more deaths, no more fears.

Dean cursed his good morals.

They didn’t steal the car that day, although both of them were tempted.

Although they should have.

Dean bumped Sam’s ribs softly with his elbow. “Soon, tiger. It’s gonna be in our hands. I’ve been doing some overtime lately, trying to rack up some extra cash—“

“So that’s why you’ve been coming home later than usual,” Sam pointed out, and Dean nodded. “Yep, and it’s been worth the black eye too,” he said, pointing to his shiner, “Couldn’t let Dad catch on. After all, we’ve been working towards this baby for ten years already.”

“Yeah,” Sam smiled, and said nothing else.

The two brothers stood in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone reading this fix, thank you! I hope you don't hate me for the non-consistancy of the updates. But I will be writing as much as I can, as often as I can, because this is one of my greater fix ideas and I don't want it to drown.  
> The reaping begins in the next chapter...


	3. Chapter 3

**The Reaping**

Dean woke up very peacefully the next morning.

Through the room’s filthy window, coated in a fine dust, some cheery sunlight managed to break through, reflecting onto Dean’s pillow and spreading over his bedsheets. The glow was warm and comforting, and Dean could have slept on forever, bathing like a cat in that wonderful, wonderful sun.

He didn’t open his eyes right away, but rather took it all in blindly, the feeling of the soft blankets covering his bare torso and his left leg. His right leg was hanging lazily off the bed in an attempt to cool his body temperature during the night. The heat had refused to die down.

 _At least it’s not raining,_ Dean told himself in his sleepy state of mind. _And that’s a pretty swell bright side._

Dean was somewhat of a burrower when it came to sleeping. In the mornings he would find himself with his head buried under his pillow, one arm slung on top to hold it in place, the other supporting Dean’s jaw from underneath. Today, it was the same.

Perfectly luxurious. Perfectly blissful.

He didn’t want to wake up. Not just yet. He had been dreaming again, and this was one that he wanted to keep a leash on. He wanted to go back to it, wanted to go back to sleep so he could see it again. He wish it wouldn’t end.

But it did.

It was beautiful, though. He found himself in a pygmy sized chapel, only large enough to hold thirty people at the most. But it was cozy, and strung up with what appeared to be white Christmas lights, decorated all around.

He was at an alter, dressed in a white suit with a black tie and vest, his black eye long gone.

It was a wedding. But it wasn’t Dean’s.

There was Sam close by, and Sam was standing next to a woman. She was absolutely stunning (and, incidentally, resembled Jessica Moore, the girl Sam had been crushing on for years now,) with a snow white gown that was so long two small children had to carry it behind her, and they still held it, their tiny faces lit up so bright.

During this dream, Dean had wondered if he had been lucky. He had wondered if this wasn’t a real dream at all, that the rest of his life was just a nightmare, only to wake up to the most fantastic day of his life.

But it couldn’t be true, as much as he wanted it to be.

Because sitting in the front row, joined hand in hand, were his mother and father.

Mary Winchester had tears in her eyes. John looked pretty close to shedding a few himself. They both were so happy, watching as their youngest read his vows to the woman he loved, and she read him hers.

And Dean was crying, too.

He was crying because the scene was all so amazing, and he wanted nothing more than to just die in his sleep, and to live _this_ life. He wanted to be Sam’s best man for all of forever, wanted Sam to keep kissing that marvellous girl, smiling and laughing, he wanted to talk to his mother again, embrace her again, he wanted to play ball with John again like the two did when Dean was little.

He wanted life to be _okay_.

But it wasn’t okay.

It was only a nice dream…

A nice dream, filled with hope. And Dean wondered if one day, maybe—

He rolled over to find a rather unexpected surprise, and nearly fell out of bed in shock.

Squeezed into Dean’s itty-bitty single mattress, whole body close to falling off the edge, lay Sam Winchester, on his side and curled into a tight ball, sleeping soundly. Dean had no idea how the kid didn’t just tumble off, because Dean was a known kicker in his sleep. Ex-girlfriends could tell you that.

But all the same, Sam had managed.

It’s been a long time since Dean had woken up to the site of his brother beside him, not since they were six and ten. But during those times, it had happened often. John would be on one of his drunk rages, sobbing loudly, crying out for Mary, yelling at them one night for something they didn’t do. He would be in the living room, swearing, talking to no one.

That’s when Sam would always get scared.

He would get nightmares, and wake up, but would know better than to scream and bring hungover Dad into the room, so he would silently cry, and try to rock himself back to sleep.

Then one night Dean had found out.

 _You don’t have to be scared, Sammy,_ Dean had told him before bed one night, _Daddy’s not gonna hurt you. Not when I’m around. And those nightmares are nothing you can’t handle, buddy. They_ _ain’t real, they can’t get to you. You’re tough as nails._

But Sam wasn’t easily convinced. _I can’t get them to go away, Bean—_

Bean. That’s what he used to call him. Couldn’t quite form that “D” sound just yet.

_—and Daddy won’t stop yelling…_

Dean had thought about this for a moment.

_When Mommy was still alive, and I was afraid of the dark, she used to tell me it was okay to come and sleep with her. But since Mommy’s not here right now, you can sleep with me Sammy, tonight._

Immediately, Sam’s whole mood had changed. _You mean it?_

_Duh. I wouldn’t say it if i didn’t—_

But he was cut off as the other boy threw himself into Dean, wrapping his arms around his brothers neck almost a little too tight, just hugging him.

_Thank you, Bean._

_No problem, Sammy._

Now, here Sam was again. Age fourteen, looking as small as he did years and years ago.

It broke Dean’s heart.

Still scared after all this time, and you couldn’t blame him. John talked about him like he was _bred_ to go into the arena, like a fucking Career. Like he was some kind of Captain America super soldier, who’s destiny was to be trapped as a rat in a cage, scratching and biting and clawing for his life, to come out on top as the last one standing.

Scarred and paranoid for the rest of his life. A ghost.

Gently, Dean brushed some of the hairs that had drifted into Sam’s face, tucking them behind his ears, careful not to disrupt his calmness. Sam breathed deeply, and Dean was curious if the younger was dreaming, too, and what about. They didn’t seem to be bad ones, and that was good.

Sam had enough bad dreams to last him a long time.

A light knock came from the door.

Automatically, Dean straightened up as John walked in quietly. Like male lions, they always challenged one another, but this morning, John just looked defeated. When he saw Sam on Dean’s bed, his face softened, and Dean realized that last night was the first night in a very long while that John Winchester had made it through sober. His eyes weren’t red, he didn’t flinch at the light.

Dean relaxed his shoulders.

“Hey, Dad.”

John glanced up at him, sighing. “Hey, buddy.”

It’s been a while since that, too.

“How’s your eye?”

Dean hadn’t even given his eye a single thought yet. He had been to preoccupied with memories and his brother and worrying about the reaping, but he supposed now was a good time to examine it. When he lightly pressed his fingers to it, there was only a dull numbing sensation, not a lot of pain.

“Better,” Dean mumbled, “It’s getting there.”

John nodded, and averted his eyes to the floor. He stood there, not moving, looking as if he were looking for the right words to say.

“Listen, Dean. I just wanted to tell you that you were right.”

He raised a brow, a bit suspicious. “‘Bout what?”

“About what you said about your mom,” John continued. “About what you said about me.”

Silence over threw them once again, and it took a few seconds for John to regain his steps. “I’m not asking for you to forgive me for what I did, and the stupid things I’ve said—“

“Good.”

John paused at Dean’s interruption, looking a bit confused. But Dean went on. “You’re the shittiest father this world could ever ask for. You trained us to be warriors instead of how to play chess or help us with our homework. You abused me several times in front of Sam. You drink your sorrows away each night, glorify the Games, act like we’d be heroes if we made it out instead of fearing for our _lives_. If heaven is real, and Mom is watching over us, I pray to God that she realizes what a monster she married.”

He said this all with a terrifying calm on his face, his voice constantly steady, not breaking a stride. He felt like shaking on the inside, felt like screaming, like anyone else would.

But he didn’t.

Because Dean Winchester didn’t fit himself in with the “anybody else” crowd.

“Two nights ago you beat me and gave me this eye,” he pointed to it again, “And left Sam by himself to make sure you hadn’t given me brain damage. I got lucky that time around. I’m glad you don’t expect forgiveness outta me. Cause you’re never getting it, because for fourteen years, all you’ve done was wallow in your self pity, and never looked twice at your own sons. You’re nothing but a selfish bastard, and I want you to live knowing that’s all you are. Sam might forgive you, if you’re lucky. Sam’s a softer soul. But just so you know, you can’t take any of this back. Ever.”

John listened to all of this in, not moving. Just listening.

Finally, he just sighed.

“I figured that’s what you would say.”

He went to turn back out of the room, when Dean stopped him, sprinting from the bed to catch hold of the sleeve of John’s leather jacket.

“You didn’t let me finish.”

Now Dean wouldn’t look at his father’s eyes, but rather, back at Sam. But he went on. “Just because you were a shit dad then doesn’t mean you can’t change. Drop the booze, continue life, be the man Mom knew she married. Not this _thing_ you turned into.”

Dean dropped the sleeve, and went back to the bed, sitting on the side closest to the window, facing away from the door.

What a beautiful day it was going to be...

“You’ll never fix it, but that doesn’t mean it’s too late to try anything else.”

There was a very long, awful pause afterwards, and Dean had started to think that John had left the room, until he heard three words.

“Ge dressed, son.”

Dean turned around, and John was giving a sad smile. He left, the dull thud of his footsteps echoing through the halls.

This was it.

The last reaping.

The last Hunger Games they would ever have to witness, the last of District 12, the last of Panem.

And that was enough to give Dean a very dangerous tool.

Hope.

“Yes, sir.” Was all Dean could find to reply, and was left unheard.

***

“Sam, you suck at tying ties, you know that?”

“What? Why, what’s wrong with it?”

Dean grumbled. “It’s backwards, you dork.”

Sam inspected the white tie that fell down the from of his black dress shirt, as Dean moved on to roll up Sam’s sleeves for him. Sam shrugged. “I think it looks just fine.”

Dean coughed, which sounded more like _finemyass_ than a cough.

It really looked ridiculous like that, but Sam was determined to ignore it, something else clearly on his mind.

Dean was straightening out his own shirt, also rolling up the sleeves to the elbow, just the way he liked it. It gave him a sense of “badass-ery” (as he likes to say.) Although Dean’s own tie was knotted perfectly and a darker shade of grey.

“Here, let me fix it for you,” Dean insisted, and reached out for the miserable tie. But Sam drew back.

“No way, man. I’m fourteen, I can handle this.”

“Obviously not, kiddo, if it’s not even on the right way.” Under his breath, Dean added “dumb ass,” and Sam punched his shoulder. Not lightly either, but Dean only laughed. “I’m joking, man. But seriously, your tie.” Sam finally gave in, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as Dean adjusted it, knotting it nicely.

He smiled at his work. “There,” Dean quickly dusted off Sam’s shoulders, getting rid of any last minute wrinkles, “Now you’re set for Jessica to drool all over you.”

Sam just glared, but smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean just nodded, the smirk high up on his face. “Bitch,” he muttered.

“Jerk.”

Suddenly, all of that momentary happiness seemed to abandon them, as they realized what exactly was happening, what they were going into. Something they couldn’t avoid, but they couldn’t help but fear anyways.

“Sam—“ Dean started, but Sam was quick to cut him off.

“Don’t give me any of your sappy moments, man. Like you said yesterday. Last reaping of our lives. We just gotta make it through this round, and we’ll be home free.”

“I know. I know.”

Sam slowly exhaled. “You worry too much.”

“I know.”

They stood there in the odd tranquility, and Dean quickly pulled his brother into a hug. It seemed to catch Sam off guard a bit, but he recovered instantly, and wrapped his arms around Dean's upper back.

Just then they both could feel how tall Sam was getting, and Dean stifled a chuckle, instead saying, “I’m proud of you, Sammy.”

“I’m proud of you, too.”

Dean smiled and withdrew, still with one hand delicately on the back of Sam’s neck. “Look at us being so miserable.”

Their hug ended, and Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder heartily.

“Well, baby brother. Should we go face the day?” Dean asked, eyes dancing. But he could tell right away that Sam was still hesitant over something, just the way his eyebrows seemed to deepen, like he was taking a good time to think.

“What’s up, Sam?”

Sam took a step toward Dean, and mumbled just loud enough for Dean to hear him, “I got you something.” He shoved something into Dean’s hand, looking a bit embarrassed. “It’s not much, I only got it for a few cents at the Hob. But it was all I could afford without pulling money from the Impala savings, and I really wanted to get you a reaping present.”

Dean was slightly taken aback at this, and slowly opened his fist to see what Sam’s gift had been. It was a necklace, roped with felt string. Hanging off of it was a small, golden amulet. The piece looked like some kind of face, with big ears and horns, and a large swirl engraved onto it’s equally large forehead.

Dean rubbed a thumb over it a couple of times, gently.

“Sam—“

“It’s okay if you hate it. I know it’s not very cool and all…”

“Are you kidding me?!” Dean exclaimed, “Sammy, I love it! Why would you think it’s not cool? I think it’s rad!”

He swung the string around his neck and tied it there, leave the amulet to hang at the top of his chest. He couldn’t stop grinning.

“Sam, thank you so much.” Dean hugged him again, and felt Sam’s body relax from its tense state. He’d been nervous that Dean wouldn’t like it.

“Oh, god Sam… I’m such an asshole, I didn’t get you anything.”

Sam laughed and shook his head. “Nah, it’s cool. Not freaking out when I snuck in your bed last night is a good enough gift for me.”

“That sounded really gay right there.”

“Gross, Dean. We’re brothers!” *

“I was only pulling your leg, dude, calm down.”

Sam jokingly slapped Dean in the back of the head, and they laughed together.

Although the amulet probably was a real piece of crap, there was no denying that Dean did love it with all of his heart and soul. It’s not often that people spent money on him, and it was rare to receive gifts. But they were the most prized possessions Dean could have, especially if they were from Sam.

“And besides,” Sam added, “We’re buying Freedom soon. That’s like the best present ever!”

Sam had always wanted to name the Impala “Freedom” once they got her keys and she was theirs to drive for miles and miles. Dean thought it was silly, because he had always preferred “Baby” over everything else, but Sam had a point.

Soon, they would be long gone, on some new adventure to take them far away.

And Dean couldn’t wait.

***

Once again, the square in town was packed, this time the voting booths nowhere to be seen. The stage was still up, and so was that big stupid screen. They tend to leave it behind so then people without media access like television could come out and watch the Games, so Dean naturally hated it.

But it was a sight he had gotten used to year to year.

Dean and Sam parted to go into their respected age groups. The stage was set like usual. There was a microphone stand, standing about five feet up, and on either side, about two feet apart or so on wooden tables, were two large glass bowls that made Dean think of goldfish.

However, one of the bigger differences between this years appearance and the years previous, was how empty those bowls were.

They would always have hundreds of papers to the brim like water, close to over flowing.

In each bowl laid one, as far as Dean could see.

_We still are kids, Dean…_

The screen flickered again, and Dean couldn’t help but to roll his eyes. Here they were, showing the same video that played every year, always with footage of the destroyed District 13 to wrap it up.

This year, he tuned out, annoyed with it. For eighteen years he stood and listened to that stupid thing, and it made him angry. He could care less about the Dark Days, or about District 13, or that the people of Panem _chose_ for it to be this way.

He just wanted out of this prison.

He just wanted out.

The video ended (thank god), and silence followed. And following that, the tiny clicking sounds of heels striking against wood, slowly getting closer with each little click.

Another familiar sight that accompanied the Games were the people known as the Escorts.

Directly from the Capitol, they were the ones who reaped the names, then whisked the chosen children away back to the city.

For as long as Dean could remember, Naomi was 12’s escort. He was unsure of her last name, but from he knew of her, she was a real bitch. He and Benny used to make jokes about her all the time because she wore way too much grey eyeshadow to go along with her grey suit that she seemed to wear every year. Her hair was always in a tight brown bun, her nails painted a boring blue.

Always the same.

It was interesting, though. Dean would see citizens from the Capitol all the time on TV, and they were all rather… Bizarre. Like the newscaster from a couple nights ago with her weird bubblegum mohawk and crazy makeup. Lots of them would have the strangest body modifications, too, like dying their skin purple or having dozens of piercings on a single eyebrow.

But not Naomi. She seemed to distant herself from that.

Still.

Dean found her to be a bitch.

She walked up to the microphone, and tapped it twice, in which a soft _bump bump_ was heard clearly throughout the square.

Then she began to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, her voice like a monotone recording, “Welcome to the reaping of the 25th Hunger Games, and that of the first ever Quarter Quell.”

 _Out of many Quarter Quells to come…_ Crowley’s voice wound its way into Dean’s head.

Haunting.

There was still no response from the people of 12, grim faces all around, but Naomi carried on anyways.

“Ladies first,” she spoke dully, sticking her hand into the bowl on her right, swooping out the lonely paper.

Dean didn’t notice that he was holding his breath until his lungs started to burn.

“And may the odds be ever in your favour.”

_Cigarettes… Oh, how I would kill for a cigarette…_

Slowly, Naomi’s eyes seemed to scan the paper, looking at it thrice over at the printed words.

“Becky Rosen,” she called out, and there was a small gasp from a part of the crowd, and then it turned back to quiet.

For a moment, it seemed as if this Becky hadn’t been in present at all, before a skinny blond girl, with a face that resembled that of a horse’s, could be seen walking towards the stage.

Dean’s heart caught in his throat. He didn’t know this girl. But she looked young, perhaps even younger than Sam, at least twelve or thirteen.

 _That could’ve been Gracie,_ Dean couldn’t stop thinking, and he felt guilty for it. He felt guilty for thinking _Thank god_ when it was this Rosen girl’s name, not Gracie’s.

Grace, the girl he had voted for.

And now she was home free, and Dean had kept his promise.

Becky went to stand by Naomi, and Dean could just about feel the panic radiating off her skin, and he could see her tremble, and maybe a few tears maybe there way down her shallow cheeks. Or maybe it was just the light.

But now Naomi turned her attention to the next bowl.

“Now to select the boy tribute,” she droned on, and reached in.

It was like time had gone into slow motion, and Dean didn’t know why, but he could hear his heart galloping wildly, a stallion trying to find its herd. He shouldn’t be that nervous, but the anxiety was building, and all the sudden he felt as if he couldn’t breath at all. As if he were in a closed container, with no air holes, and he was suffocating, banging on the glass.

Just a rat in a cage, just a rat in a cage…

And Naomi suddenly stopped, and nearly did Dean’s poor heart. She stared into that bowl for a moment, as if confused, and Dean hoped that maybe there was no paper. That the bowl was just empty, and no boy was to be reaped that year, and perhaps they would even let Becky go…

But that wasn’t the case like most things in this world.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Naomi said, softer this time, as if she had

_(pity)_

finally come around from the bewildered state, “It looks as if we need to have a second vote.”

There was an uproar.

Shouting, yelling, kids looking frantically for friends they could be comforted by, the boys all with pale faces, but then there was Dean Winchester.

 _No_.

Dean found himself wrapped in silence. A whole world of it, and it was just him, all alone.

 _Oh no_.

And he watched her draw the two slips out from the bowl

_(just a rat in a cage)_

and her eyes scanned over those as well, just as she had done with Becky’s.

_(please don’t let it be like this)_

But it was.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

And Naomi finally called out those two names.

“Sam Winchester. Dean Winchester.”

And in a single moment of both space and time and life and death and oblivion and existence, there had never been such a terrible deafening as there was now.

Deafening silence.

And the crushed souls of two brothers.

 _Oh, god no_.

“May Dean and Sam Winchester please come up to the stage?”

Numb to the core, Dean couldn’t even feel his feet sliding across the brick flooring of the square. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t hear anything. He could breath, but it felt as if he were sucking air from a car tire, and that air was rotten. But he walked with his head held high anyways.

In the distance, somewhere far away in some other land, a man had started screaming, crying out, but Dean could only hear him faintly, although he wondered. He wondered.

He walked up the stage steps, where Naomi stood. Sam was already there, with—

_(no sammy don’t be crying please don’t be crying like this please don’t cry i don’t want you to cry oh god sammy no)_

—tears all over his face, his hair a mess. He looked like he was trying so hard to stay strong, to look brave, to slap Dean on the shoulder and say “Well, just you and me.”

But Sam couldn’t do it.

Little brother Sammy, who was always so brave.

The man’s screams were getting louder, more apparent, and Dean started to register the words coming out of his mouth, without realizing who was saying them.

“No! No, goddammit! Those are my sons! Those are my sons!”

John Winchester, for the first time in fourteen years, wanted to be a good father.

But Dean didn’t care.

Because the scared boy beside him was so much more important. A star in darkness, and that poor star needed someone to hold its hand.

So Dean did.

He held it so tight he thought he was going to break his wrist, but he didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to be torn away from Sam.

Then he saw that chapel flash before his eyes. Sam dressed up so nicely. That girl smiling, so happy. Dean crying because it would be the best day of his life. Dean crying because he wasn’t going to let Sam go.

 _Sammy_.

Dean wasn’t crying. But inside, his chest was screaming. Screaming so loud, screaming for his father to chase away the monsters, screaming for his mother to come and hold him, crying out for Benny when they were playing in the woods and itty bitty Dean got lost.

But no one was coming.

_I volunteer._

No one was coming, because Dean was all alone.

_I volunteer._

They were going to rip Sam away from him, he could feel it.

“All in favour of Dean Winchester, please raise a hand.”

Dean did not look at the crowd. He did not look at the number of hands that had been raised in his favour. He didn’t care, because he knew, he knew for sure there would be more votes for Sam.

_(rats in a cage)_

_I volunteer as tribute._

Sam looked though, briefly, before turning his red eyes back to Dean, as if to say

_(im sorry, bean)_

_I wish we had stolen that car._

Oh, poor Sammy. Brave little Sam, who just wanted to _live_.

“All in favour of Sam Winchester, please raise your hand.”

_I volunteer! Please!_

_(just don’t take sammy away like they took away benny)_

Hands slowly went up through the human ocean. But Dean never took his eyes off Sam.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, half of it a sob. Dean gripped his hand tighter.

“Dean, don’t you _dare_ do it.”

But all Dean could do was give Sam a sad look, and whispered back, softly, so softly that he almost never heard him, “I love you, Sammy.”

And then, with an even softer whisper:

“I volunteer as tribute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I was not suggesting Wincest. I am sorry if it came across to you in that way, but Wincest is not a part of this fic. Although, I do have respect for the ship. I just don't ship it personally. 
> 
> Thanks for reading guys! This chapter was actually very emotional to write, I was damn crying by the end of it. Just to let you know the next update may not be for two weeks or sadly, more, as I work at a summer camp and can't write and watch kids at the same time. Not that anybody reads my fic anyways. *laughs* 
> 
> The next chapter will be from the POV of the strange blue eyes boy that everyone seems to be talking about...


	4. Chapter 4

**District 1**

In _the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth._

_—Genesis, 1:1_

Castiel fell in love with those words.

He had been for quite a long time (six years now, was it?). Ten simple words all strung together on that first frail page, slightly worn down by age and time, not saying much but all the same leaving Castiel breathless in such awe and wonder that they couldn’t _just_ be ten simple words.

It was almost indescribable.

But he managed.

There was no real telling why, or why those words spoke to him so loud on that gorgeous morning, that he continued to fall in love with such a line out of a book packed tight with so many. It might have just been the way the sun was gently kissing his cheeks, reflecting the brilliant skies in his eyes, or the way the breeze ruffled his messy dark hair in a friendly manner. Perhaps it was even the softness of the grass tickling the soles of his feet, connecting body with the Earth and all of her surprises. He never liked to wear shoes. It took away that sense of freedom he had been dying for, that sense of running towards something instead of away from everything.

A beautiful, beautiful feeling.

The swing set creaked under his weight, as he rocked back and forth, not swinging, particularly, but also not stationary. Castiel had total faith in the old playground, though. For a long time, as long as he could remember, it stood in his backyard, and not just supporting him, but seven older brothers as well. Hell, if he got lucky with this life—and he supposed he would—the swing he sat on now might even hold his children.

He smiled, and the wind touched and lifted a few pages of his book. _That’s a nice thought. A very nice thought…_

He liked children, very much. They brought a warmth to his heart, and the idea of him being a father was absolutely calming, really. He wanted to make them beam with excitement, he wanted them to laugh as they soared to the skies on that swing set, standing with maybe a wife at his hip, always happy, always loving.

_What a nice dream..._

The lonely boy took a deep breath, his lips still in their upward curve, although this was a day he shouldn’t be smiling like this, although he was. He should’ve been pacing in his bedroom, stressed, rubbing his face, panicking, heart flying, but he wasn’t, and not because he had accepted his fate which had been pretty much laid out in front of him like a carpet. A carpet that would either lead him to fame and wealth, or a carpet that would drop him off the edge of a steep cliff, where he would break his neck.

It was because of this verse that he felt this way, so peaceful.

How amazing that there even was a beginning, a place where things had to start? That someone decided to sit down, and shape them all, and decided to make a place as spectacular as Heaven, and a mystery like Earth, with it’s vast oceans and wide open landscapes.

Castiel could only imagine how beautiful the world was before all this mess happened. After all, he was just seventeen, a kid born in the generation of the 8th Annual Hunger Games, and despite watching a good number of 1’s tributes walk back off that train, walk on back home, it still made him feel

_(hopeless)_

rather hurt. Because it was only ever one who made it back, after all. Two soldiers, one corpse, and often the one who came back was the one who pulled the trigger.

Remembering this quickly wiped the smile from Castiel’s face.

It’s a strange experience, being the youngest brother of a famous victor. A survivor of the Games. It meant more press attention that was unwanted, and less time to be spent with said brother, as he was always being interviewed if he was to be reaped as a coach, to which that same brother would shake his head, and add nothing more than “no comment,” and walk away.

Castiel had liked that about Lucifer. The interesting and intriguing charm that seemed to capture people, or that cunning grin that appeared welcoming, and to Castiel, it was indeed a welcoming grin. He always made time for his family.

Lucifer Novak was seven years older than the blue eyed boy, although he was only third oldest in the family. Michael, who was long gone on some job to do with designing jewels and running production on some dumb company, held the position of the eldest child. There was also Raphael, Gadreel, Zachariah, Uriel, Balthazar, and then there was Gabriel.

Out of his seven older brothers, Castiel only felt a real connection with two of them: Lucy and Gabriel. At one point, Michael was also on that list, and then something just… happened. Castiel didn't like to remember that "something" very often, always pushing it out of his mind, trying his best to forget.

But Gabe and Lucy always included him, they always made him feel as though he wasn’t a burden to the family. The rest of them tended to ignore him and act like he didn’t exist, mostly because Castiel was the baby, and therefore treated as such.

Although, that wasn’t _entirely_ true… He never used to be the baby. Not always.

"Something had just... happened.

 

He turned his attention back onto the verse again.

_In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth._

Reading that verse was like breathing in a fresh breath of life, just knowing that everything had a starting point, that everything was thought of, because it was wanted and meant to be.

How amazing a concept. That people weren’t demons, mistakes cast out of God’s perfect Heaven to slave the Earth away. That they were meant to be something greater than just dust.

His fingers trailed over the cover of the book, feeling the rough and cracked leather bindings and spine, as if it had been opened many times, even before Castiel had found it. Around the edges, some of the pages had been burned, brown and crisped, and this was because when Castiel did find it, it was at District 1’s last book burning.

He had been eleven, and Lucy had come back home, a winner, and exactly the same as he had been when he left. Sly, happy, excited. In celebration of his victory, the district had hosted a public bonfire, using old, banned books that had been forbidden by the Capitol as a fuel source.

The heat had been magnificent, flushing Castiel’s face as he held his brother’s hand, dancing to some music, rather happy. Parties were always fun. Then later, when Lucy had gone to visit his girlfriend, Castiel immediately migrated to find Gabriel, who was slightly tipsy but sober enough to watch baby brother Cassie.

Then the fire had died away as the hours flew pass, and Castiel had come across a book, with a black leather cover, which was still flaming around the edges, and Castiel felt a compulsion to save it. After all, despite the Novak’s being particularly wealthy, he did not own many books. And this one seemed to call to him in a strange sort of way.

So he stomped on the flames, and took it home, where he hid it under his mattress.

Everyday, for six years, he would read it. Never large amounts at one time, and never in small either. He would unfold the hundreds upon hundreds of stories that this book held, each with fascination or disgust or wonder. Lots left him with a good sense, though.

The book had no title, at least not anymore. The last of the golden lettering on the front cover had faded away, leaving a single letter, standing and fading quickly itself:

**_I_ **

One letter out of what seemed to be two words.

The more he read the book (and reread it, no doubt), the more and more intrigued he felt. As if there were some sort of lively spirit bringing it to life. He could see clearly that it was indeed an old religion, something that had to be long extinct by now. He had never heard of Christians until this book was discovered. It talked of churches and temples, which no longer stood. It spoke of places of worship that the people could gather to learn about their God, but if they had existed at all, they did not now. Either worn by time like this book, or demolished by the Capitol.

If not a religion, which could be very well just as true, then it was obviously a long story about a child who wanted to make something out of nothing. This child was angry for the first half of the book, known as the Old Testament, because his creations would always be foolish and not obey his orders, simple commands. But Castiel would always think it very odd of this God (this child) to be angry like that. After all, he had granted his creations with freewill, with choice.

However, later in the story, (or the New Testament) the child would take pity on his creations and grow sad, because they were too tainted with bad things in their hearts to be with him. So the child made the ultimate human. Man without sin or sorrows.

And then this wonderful man was killed, and everyone was free, and the child smiled.

It really was a different type of story, but Castiel found a beautiful type of love in it. After the first few times he read it, he had determined that God had to of been a child at first, because he was a wrathful God, a murderous God, who flooded the Earth and did many terrible things. But children grow.

Children grow, and they learn.

And that’s why he sent that one human down, to make things right, to save them, because God learned that human beings are not just ants to be burned with a magnify glass. God had to have learned somewhere that they had lives, their own little lives, and that he had created those lives.

You can’t just throw your own creation away, and the child learned that.

Of course, there were things that he didn’t quite agree with in this book. There was ruthless animal sacrifice, stoning, rape being paid off with seven pieces of silver, the refusal of same sex love, but most of those rules rested in Leviticus, which was full of unnecessary rules, really. And of course, Jesus, a righteous man, a wonderful man, had died so that humans didn’t have to obey those rules. They could just be good people, and have their friendship with their Creator.

Another funny thing was the angels.

Castiel would be reading a chapter, or a verse, when he would stumble upon an angels name, and he would laugh, because he and his brothers all shared names with angels.

First of all, there was the archangel, Gabriel, who had told Mary that she was going to give birth to the saviour, and so on, but Castiel found this absolutely hilarious, because Gabriel of the Book was in no way like his own Gabriel. His Gabriel was a joker, always making weird remarks and playing pranks and over all just being an asshole, in no way elegant or holy.

He found it interesting as well, that the first angel he came across was that named Lucifer, and Lucifer was an angel who had decided to challenge God, because God had created the humans, and Lucifer felt unloved. So he rebelled against the Father, and took an army with him to the depths of Hell, forever plotting, turning into nothing more than demons.

Lucifer, which meant “bringer of light.”

Castiel decided that the name fit his brother well, but that the character did not. They were both sly, of course, but Lucy had been sly for survival. It was only instinct.

 

A trait more than evil.

Michael had also been an archangel like Gabriel, and this time the characters were freakishly similar, with Michael being a control freak and always fighting with Lucy on dumb matters. The two hated each other.

But there was one more angel that Castiel really liked. In fact, he would say that this one was his favourite.

He was only mentioned once, but Castiel had bookmarked the page, gently folding the corner, so he would never loose it.

There had been an angel by the name of Cassiel. An archangel who appeared mild, really just an observer of things. Unlike all the other angels, he was known for simply watching the events of the cosmos unfold, without interfering. Like as if he enjoyed seeing humanity in all of it’s ups and downs, and knew it would all work out in the end.

Castiel wondered if maybe his angel was a writer, just like he was. Watching stories, writing them down in the shapes of constellations and stars, the entire story of the universe and everything.

 _A poet,_ Castiel decided. This Cassiel was a poet.

Angel of solitude and tears, controller of the moon, to preside over the death of kings.

Their names weren’t exactly the same, but there was no doubt about it. This was the angel that he had been named from.

The discovery of all of this left him wondering which parent had named them. Their mother, who had died when Castiel was very young, or their father, who just got up and left one day.

It felt like something his mother would do.

He liked to think so.

Castiel closed the book, still seated on that creaky swing. He stroked a finger over the aging cover.

Today was the last good day, out of many long and bad days to come.

He wanted to enjoy it.

But of course, like many good things, it had to end, and this good moment, with his feet in the grass and with the sun caressing his face, he heard a voice cry out to him.

“Cassie! Where are you, kid?”

Quickly, before the voice made its way into the backyard, Castiel tucked the book behind his back, stuffing in into the waistband of his jeans, and flipped his shirt over top, as to hide it.

He loved the story, but there was something that made him hesitant on sharing his new faith.

_(judgement)_

It was also very illegal to steal books destined for the fireplace. Especially those that had been forbidden by the Capitol. If he was ever caught with it, he could only imagine the number of lashes and the number of new scars the Peacekeepers would run into his back, with the whip and quick movement of the wrist.

A second afterwards, another boy came out into the grass. This boy had longer, light brown hair, an alive face, and golden eyes that appeared like treasure brought to light for the first time in a hundred years. Despite not looking anything like Castiel (none of the brothers really looked alike anyway), this was Gabriel. Snarky, mischievous, and the shortest out of all the Novak brothers, although not the youngest.

Actually, he was the second youngest.

Gabriel was had just turned twenty about three days ago, and seemed to smirk at every corner, being one of the few of them to still be at home, because Castiel wasn’t of age yet. He was kind, flirtatious, clever, and most of all, understanding. And that’s why Castiel liked him best. He gave his brother a wave, motioning for him to come over and swing with him, but Gabe looked as if something of urgency was written on his face.

“Bro, the reaping is like in ten minutes, and you’re not dressed yet?! C’mon! Everyone’s expecting to see you there! And not looking like a homeless guy, like what the hell? What would Lucy say? What are you even doing?” Castiel gave a small grin, and just shrugged his shoulders. “I have my clothes laid out in my bedroom, I’ll go put them on now.”

Slowly, he rose to his feet, his legs a bit wobbly from sitting on the swing for so long, and trying to make sure that the Book in his pants wouldn’t suddenly fall out, or be noticed. But Gabe didn’t notice anything. He was too preoccupied with worry to see that awkward bulge on Castiel’s back.

“Make sure you show me first… I don’t want you to look ridiculous on your big day.”

And he did, of course. It took him less than two minutes to be spiffied up in his navy blue suit and tie, with Gabe doing any last minute touches.

“Right, there you go,” Gabriel muttered, perking up Castiel’s dark hair, so it looked “messy, cute and deadly,” as Gabe preferred to put it. He slapped his little brother’s face lightly, enough for Castiel to frown, and laughed.

“Boy, I’m gonna miss you, buddy,” Gabe said quietly, but Castiel kept up his smile.

“Just because I’m going in doesn’t mean I won’t come back,” he said, looking reassured. “You just have to have a bit of faith.”

Gabriel snorted. “What's up with you, religious man? That’s what you always told me about Dad, ya know. Faith doesn’t bring people back, doesn’t do us any good.”

That was two years back. He used to be around the Novak house a lot, mostly in his study. Castiel barely talked to him, barely any of the brothers besides Lucifer and Michael did. But one day, Gabriel had found the study swung open, and no old man—dead or alive—to be seen.

That’s when a few of them moved out, left the big house just like their father. Now it was just Lucy, Gabe, Balthazar and Cassie.

Just the four of them.

“He’d be proud, though,” Castiel added softly, “Proud of all of us, I think.”

“He never gave a rats ass. Don’t joke yourself. If he really cared he would never have left us standing alone.”

Castiel supposed that was correct, but he liked to believe otherwise. He liked to think that his father was a good man.

He _hoped_ his father was a good man.

“Anyways, keep an eye out for me in the crowd, I’ll be cheering for you,” Gabe said, sounding a tad bit excited. “And I’ll be there to say goodbye after you’re reaped, okay? Cause you’re not escaping without me wishing your sorry ass luck.”

Castiel emitted a laugh. “Trust me, I’m not going anywhere until you get there. Promise.”

Gabe gave that joker’s smile again, and sighed. His gold eyes still held a certain uneasiness. “You know, you better come back. The house is gonna be so boring without you, and I don’t want Lucy always ordering me around. It gets annoying with those two stuck ups, and Balthazar won’t quit with that dumb-ass accent of his.”

“You’d do fine without me, Gabriel. Don’t worry about me. After all,” Castiel smirked a little himself, “I already have the other tributes running scared.”

“That splitting the arrow stunt? Is that what you’re talking about?”

Castiel nodded. “Youngest brother to a previous victor, skilled marksmen. What’s there not to love?”

***

They had gathered in District 1’s town building for the reaping. It was a rather large hall, big enough to hold most of the citizens. Those late comers who weren’t possible tributes sat outside, listening to the live speaker, the speech about the Dark Days and of the Quarter Quells. Castiel found it all boring, really, blocking it all out, until they called the girl’s name.

“Anna Millton.” A roar came from the crowd, as a tall girl with vibrant red hair, probably Castiel’s age, walked to the stage, her head held high, looking proud. Just like every other District 1 tribute. Proud that they have been selected, proud that they were the ones going in to fight the battle, to bring glory to their district and fame to themselves.

Castiel still didn’t really care.

Because of that verse.

_In the beginning_

He still felt alive in that verse.

Without fear.

Although, there was something else he found that the verse could not cover. It was welling up in his chest, making it hard to breathe, making his head swim. Now what was it?

He knew it was his name, and did not flinched when they called for it. He did not flinch when they unfolded that paper, and he did not, refused to, flinch when his heart suddenly stopped.

But not from fear.

_Oh, what is it?!_

“Castiel Novak.”

An even louder cheer came from the people.

_God created the Heavens and the Earth._

It wasn’t excitement. But grief.

It was grief he was feeling, and he knew exactly why.

Castiel had no fear of death himself. He had come to terms with it ever since District 1 had started training him for the Hunger Games.

But here he was.

Regretting.

He wasn’t afraid of dying.

He was afraid of killing.

He wasn’t a murderous soul, and he would never admit it to Lucy or Gabriel, but he was haunted everyday since the Announcement, since he knew that he was going to be District 1’s tribute, that he was going to become a killer.

He wondered that if he _did_ live through this, and if he _did_ have children, and if he _did_ push them on the swings in his backyard, would they still love him, knowing that someone’s (or more likely many someone's) life ended because of him?

Would they hate him?

Or would he hate himself so much he would just put a gun to his head and end it?

He walked up there, to that stage, in that building, and stood beside the girl he knew he was going to have to put an arrow through, this Anna girl, who looked tough and battle born and fierce. Maybe it would stick out of her skull, or in her back, or his chest or throat or eyes. He didn’t want to kill her.

He didn’t want to kill anyone.

Castiel was just a lonely boy, who read a book about a child who learned to love, and he wanted to love so badly. He didn’t want it to go like this.

So he prayed.

On that stage, silently in his own mind, he prayed.

Without knowing, for how could he possibly know, that the thing he was so desperately praying for, was in District 12 at that very moment, clinging to his little brother's hand, whispering ever so softly:

_I volunteer as tribute._

Castiel had no idea that God was answering his prayer at that very moment, in the form of a sad soul who wanted his baby brother Sammy to have a good life.

 

And, in the days to come, that prayer was going to be answered in such an odd and mysterious way that Castiel would never think twice about it, would never even remember the prayer until he meets Dean Winchester.

But it would come true.

And it was going to be a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this update! Working at camp again really removes my writing time. And I'm so sorry if this update was short or seemed short, but I really needed to introduce Cas (noticed how I never actually called him "Cas," that nickname comes in later). Next update will be more interesting, as we'll go back to met Dean and watch in on Dean's final goodbyes.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Goodbye**  

Sam couldn’t speak, couldn’t find words for it. They were all scrambled up in his throat, choking the life from him, leaving him gasping and fighting for air. The world was a suffocating force, slow and painful, making sure that he felt it. There was blood pounding up against his skull, so confused,

_(so confused)_

his fingers digging deep into Dean’s hand, latching tightly to it. Here lies Sam Winchester, a boy who died that day from drowning, lost in the storm, took water into his lungs, because his life raft had been stolen by the raging ocean. Because the ocean is a cruel place, unforgiving, and uncaring of who it snatches, like a wrathful god in demand of sacrifice.

“You take that back,” Sam hissed through his teeth, muffling a whimper, “You take that back, Dean, or I swear…”

But Dean shook his head, cutting him off. And this time, in an even louder voice, to make sure everyone heard, “I volunteer as tribute.” His voice did not tremble or waver, but rather it was commanding, deeper and older than what Sam was used to. No longer did it hold that lightweight, cocky manner that Dean held so high, with the shit eating grin and the mouth to match. There was none of that now, that side of him didn’t exist.

Now Dean was choking, too. Sam supposed they both were.

Now they were both drowners, claimed by this reckless sea.

_I love you, Sammy._

Dean’s eyes—Sam saw them and felt a bit of surprise—didn’t seem as bright like they usually were. In the days before, they had been like galaxies; a spectacular green that would charm girls, burn their way into your memory, soft and playful. Those wonderful green eyes had the life sucked from them by this one moment. Now they had turned dull. Deeper. Older.

Forced to grow up.

Somewhere in the crowd below the stage, John was still rioting, his cries the only ones to be heard. The rest of humanity had grown into silence.

“My boys!” The brothers heard this clearly, and for a second Sam searched for their father, but could not find him in the abundance of people in the crowd. “They’re my boys! Dean—!”

The sky had grown darker this afternoon, the world a little bit greyer. A few droplets of rain came from the sky, one landing on the bare skin of Dean’s neck, and another on top of Sam’s head. Some thunder growled in the distance. Already, everything was so different from the morning, where the sun was bright and welcoming, casting its wonderful blanket of warmth, and the brothers were asleep, Sam curled against Dean, incased in dreams with nothing to fear.

Still kids.

They were still kids.

Dean wished he could just have that moment back. He wanted to lie there, with the covers tossed aside, brushing Sam’s long hair from his face. He wanted to relive that dream again of Sam’s wedding. He wanted to be the best man, and even more, he wanted to break out a tune on the chapel’s piano, an oldie, something you could jive to, and watch Sam and his new wife dance down the isle, the smiles so wide across their faces, kissing one another, ready to start life. He wanted to play piano while it all happened, lull the church into a smooth melody line. Once upon a time, the Winchester’s had possessed a Baby Grand, one that their mother had taught Dean on, playing all sorts of songs. It had died, though, along with Mary in the fire. Destroyed in the flames, burned away. But he wanted to play again, some lovely song, upbeat with an alive feeling.

He wished he had his guitar with him, strung across his back, so he could sing a sweet song in B minor, and rock Sam to sleep, away from the monsters, away from the dark, out of the ocean.

But no matter how much Dean wished and wanted all of these things, no matter how much he gave his sad smile, smashed into pieces, his wishes would fall out of the sky, their destiny to be lost.

Naomi spoke into the microphone, her monotone voice never changing despite the occurring events. The shellshocked wave had missed her, or she felt no emotion or feeling towards them. She didn’t care. “Dean Winchester volunteers for Sam Winchester,” she says. The people of 12 still reply with nothing, their tongues unmoving.

Without a second thought, Dean hugged Sam tightly, and Sam started screaming, and never more in his life did Dean want an escape from all of this. Not even after what happened to Benny, not even when his dad beat him, he just wanted out. He wanted to take his little brother and slaughter anyone in his path who would try and stop him.

Because they weren’t going to take the most important thing away from him.

Dean tried to calm his brother down, making dulcet hushes and running his fingers over the back of Sam’s neck, much like their mother would do for Dean when he got too scared of the dark, or when the shadows gave him the creepies. These attempts were met with no avail. Sam’s screams broke down silence like shattered mirrors.

“Sammy, it’s okay. It’s okay,” Dean whispered slowly and gently. This sparked another memory, of a very tiny baby and of a very tiny Dean, sitting on a sofa, and Dean rocking the baby back and forth, Mary or John watching next to them. When Sam began to cry, little Dean would refuse to hand him back to either of his parents, and instead managed to get Sam to fall back asleep all by himself.

It had worked for years. Why not now.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Dean continued, “It’s gonna be—” 

With no warning, a pair of arms had wound their way around Dean’s upper torso, hands locking at his chest, and pulled him from the embrace. Dean struggled immediately to get out of the hold, but the arms kept him in place, and hauled him across the stage, dragging Dean’s heels on the aging wood platform. Another Peacekeeper had rushed to keep Sam back, who had started to panic, crying out, “Dean! Dean, don’t go!”

Dean didn’t reply, couldn’t cry back, too focussed on trying to free himself, flailing his limbs, trying to throw an elbow into his captor, which was no use, as the Peacekeepers wore protective armour on their chests, and the only result was Dean’s funny bone hurt like a bitch.

They were taking him already.

_No, this isn’t fair. Not yet, not yet, I can’t go yet…_

Then Dean remembered something yet again,

_(the day is full of memories and ideas and thoughts and wonders)_

an old memory, of an old friend, who got to say—

“I get to say goodbye!” Dean shouted, somewhat to the crowd but mostly to Sam, “Don’t let them take me without saying goodbye!”

It was like he was begging, and Dean Winchester hated to beg, but there were always special occasions where you had to do what you hated for you to get by.

The Peacekeeper pulled Dean all the way back off the stage, through the back exist behind the giant screen, and down a small flight of steps. Twisting his neck, Dean saw that the same was happening to this Becky girl, 12’s female tribute. She was not, however, restrained like Dean was, but simply escorted, and by the dark skinned officer that Dean had briefly held conversation with yesterday at the voting booth. Becky’s cheeks were shiny and her eyes were red, but she wasn’t causing a fuss, wasn’t fighting like he was.

Finally, Dean had enough, and managed to pivot his way out of the clinging arms. “Get the hell off me!” he said angrily as he knocked a hand away, and the Peacekeeper released him. Dean turned to met their eyes, and his jaw nearly dropped.

“Garth?”

So it was. The kid looked older with a full uniform, vest, helmet and visor. It even aged him more with the gun slung across his back and the pistol in the thigh holster, but the sorrowful look in his eyes was radiant, like they were trying to speak words of their own. But Dean ignored them. “What the hell?! What’re you doing?!”

Garth threw up his hands defensively, a fearful line passing over his face as though he thought Dean might start lashing out or throw some punches. “Woah woah, my friend. Take it easy for a second—”

“Take it easy for a second?” Dean repeated back, full of rage, “I just volunteered for my brother in the fucking Hunger Games, Garth! I just watched as the majority of 12 was willing to toss him into the lions den! And then the minute after I volunteer I don’t even get to say my goodbyes? What fucking kind of police system is this that tears family from each other?”

But Garth was an officer of the law, and would not take Dean Winchester’s sissy complaints. Whipping his gun into his hands, he rammed the butt of it into Dean’s chest, knocking the wind from him. Dean tried to gasp for a breath and take his own swing, but Garth was swift, kicking the back of Dean’s knee in, forcing him onto the ground with his face in the dirt, scraping the palms of his hands. And just for good measure, he rested a solid foot between Dean’s shoulder blades, holding him in place.

“I’m seventeen, Dean, not an idiot,” Garth said through gritted teeth, “I’m just doing my job.”

Dean tried to get up, but Garth was a lot stronger than his skinny frame suggested. Dean should’ve guessed so. District 2 trained their soldiers well. _All_ of their soldiers.

And then Dean was hit with the reminder, that seventeen year old Garth was in fact one of those soldiers. A kind soul who liked to entertain children, who liked to help out 12’s citizens and make conversation and make everyone smile, was just as capable to put a bullet through his skull, without flinching, without remorse.

That’s what soldiers did anyways. Followed orders. Protect the peace.

And still just a kid.

Garth’s foot slid from Dean’s back, and, surprisingly, offered a hand to help Dean up, face coated with dirt just as rain began to pour from the sky. His palms had started to bleed, but he just wiped them on the side of his pants, without awareness.

“Sorry, Garth,” Dean muttered, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for me, Dean-o. Just keep on your feet, and keep ‘er walking.”

They continued on, rainwater crash-landing now, and by the time they reached the steps leading up to the large oak doors on the Town Hall, Dean was drenched, dress shirt sagging. Garth turned to face Dean again.

“You’ll get your goodbyes,” he said, almost to the ground instead of to Dean. The other Peacekeeper behind them was giving Becky the same debriefing, the Peacekeeper’s gruff voice carrying through the air. “That’s a promise. You get an hour, and that’s it, but if I can sneak you a few extra minutes… I’m so sorry, Dean.” 

He was really genuine, Garth. Despite the tough solider exterior he displayed to make Dean understand, he was soft. He wasn’t built to be a soldier, he was built to be in a daycare, babysitting with his sock puppet, having children laugh around him, falling asleep on his lap as he read them bedtime stories about heroes and dragons and happy endings. He cared for Dean and Sam, the way he would always find them in the Hob and find time to talk to them about the Impala, about hunting, about anything. He didn’t want Dean to go because he felt as though Dean was his friend. The gun in his hands looked to big for him, made him look babyish and small.

But he was a good kid.

“Go up the steps, and go to the first room on your left. It’ll be unlocked. I’ll be standing outside, but once you enter that room I’m not allowed to speak to you. If I do, it’ll be very minimal. I’ll send visitors in, one by one. A few extra minutes may be possible, I’ll see what I can do. But only if I can. You got it?”

Dean was about to argue with him, tell him that he shouldn’t be putting his job at risk for him, but Garth just gave a light chuckle. “I wanted an early retirement anyways.”

He wanted to help, so Dean let him help.

Garth motioned for him to go. “Goodbye, Dean. Try to come back.”

Dean nodded in return. Not saying anything.

There were lead weights fastened to the bottom of his soles, and it took every ounce of strength to pull himself up those stairs, one foot at a time, although it wasn’t out of fear that caused him to feel this way. Dean Winchester was not everybody else, after all, and the Hunger Games was not his biggest fear. Hell was nothing to fear. His mind was working like clockwork, thinking about things to say and not say to Sam, unaware that Becky had crept up to walk on his right hand side. Dean didn’t notice her, but he would in the future. He would learn about her, worry about her, be so worried about that little girl, but this was now. Right now, his mind was on Sam and Garth and John and everything he loved and hated about 12 and the Impala and freedom and the world beyond Panem and _oh fuck they should’ve stolen that car._

_(fucking good morals)_

Dean reached the top of the stairs, feeling breathless, but determined. Garth came from behind him and swung one of the large doors open, revealing a long hall, lined with pictures of past mayors, but otherwise it was very grey, Dean saw. And without being asked, Dean strutted right in and went to the room on the left, just as he was told.

Upon entering, a peculiar feeling of emptiness and dust met his eyes. The little room contained a couch and an armchair, distanced a few feet apart, separated by a grimy coffee table, and sun worn curtains on the tall window, standing high behind the lonely chair.

There wasn’t much else, and it felt rather lonely.

Dean walked without hurry, listening to the creaks of the floorboards and watched as grey dust swirled around him, coating his pant legs in a fine layer of ash. He reached the chair. Dean collapsed onto it, immediately met with the alarm that it would fracture and splinter from right underneath him, with its whining groans, but it held, and its whines subsided as his weight was grown accustomed to.

The door had been mutely shut behind him, and now, Dean was alone. For the first time today, he was physically alone, and he didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know if he felt like crying or fighting someone just to get his anger out, but there was some kind of vague yet strong emotion in his heart. Dean rubbed his forehead with damp and wrecked hands, and noticed for the first time that he had begun sweating, and he was sweating a lot. The atmosphere outside was chilly, with the new rain coming down in fine sheets, but in here, it was like roasting in an oven.

With the wet sleeve of his shirt, he brushed the droplets of perspiration from his face, and suddenly wished he could have a drink of water, his throat feeling dry and uncomfortable. But on second inspection, the room had no sink, and Dean was left disappointed. His head was aching, pounding out a painful rhythm that felt like his skull was about to split open. He jerked on his tie, loosening it, but still feeling strangled with the light weight around his neck. In the end he just tossed it on the table. The room seemed to grow warmer. Dean rested his head on this knees and rubbed at his neck, the sweating increased.

Bloody hot.

Dean was tempted to just start stripping off his clothes when the door was unbolted, startling Dean upright, where he met Sam’s gaze. His long hair was drenched and sticking against his neck and forehead, and his eyes were still puffy, but now it was as if he were trying to conceal the tears, hold the sorrow back, try to act tough.

Like in one of their sparring matches.

Just like an ordinary day.

Sam shoulders rose and fell heavily, like it took all the effort in the world to not run to him, and sat on the coach where some dust clouded into the air. Sam coughed once, and his knees knocked together a little bit. Trying to hold it together.

Dean on the other hand was not an emotional man, and rarely lost it. But it was difficult to keep his composure while his strong little brother forced back the tears. It was difficult, because over these last couple weeks Dean’s wall was falling in on itself, the fortress exposed, vulnerable, brick by brick crumbling in between his fingers, and a dog can only be kicked so many times before it winces and has it’s tail between its legs.

But Dean did his best to keep barking.

He always kept barking.

He decided he would speak first. “Hey there, tiger,” he said, smiling. He was thankful that it struck him as real and wasn’t interrupted by tears or crying. He was thankful he could hold in his emotions and mask them with others.

Dean was glad he could lie.

Sam was choked, though, and inhaled a long gulp of air, shaking slightly as he did. He had his hands clasped together, fingers fiddling with fingers, something he often did when he was nervous or panicked. “Dean… Why did you do it? Why did you volunteer?” His vocalization was low and astonishingly quiet, barely audible for Dean to hear. But he caught every word attached, and merely sighed.

“Because, Sam,” he said quite plainly, “We both know that you would do the same for me.” He gave a flash of his teeth in his smile, but Sam was just shaking his head, slowly, in a sad manner.

“That’s not the reason. I know it’s not,” Sam went on, his hands twisting in a frenzy now, “Or maybe it’s one reason, I don’t know. I don’t know.”

His words were cracking, but he strained them to be steady again.

“You and Dad always fought over it. I would try and get some sleep, but sometimes I would just hear you two shouting terrible things, you know? Like the night Dad hurt you really bad, I came to see what you were fussing about, and I heard Dad say that you were a coward, Dean. That you didn’t have the guts to kill anyone. That I—that I was always the better hunter. But you had been saying stuff, like…”

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to recall the memory, tears forming pathways on his face. He wiped them away, maybe thinking that Dean wouldn’t notice. But Sam wasn’t fast enough.

“… Like that I could win. Would win. But you were so scared anyways, Dean, you were scared that it would rip me apart—”

“Because it would,” Dean interrupted, “It would hurt you, Sammy. The Games would hurt you so bad, leave an ugly scar, and I don’t want that. I don’t want you to wake up from nightmares because the only monsters that should exist in your head are those that you were scared of when you were little. The ones that can’t hurt you, the ones that aren’t there.”

“Dad said I’d come out a hero.” He said this almost with defeat in his eyes.

“Well Dad was hammered and over run with pride. He was wrong, because the Games are _not_ glorious, Sam. It’s a murder show. Heroes don’t exist in the arena.”

“But you knew that they were all going to vote me in during that second round,” Sam said, set like cold stones, “And you knew that I had a good chance. So why sacrifice yourself, Dean, when I’m perfectly capable of saving my own skin?”

“Because I’d rather go through Hell than watch you turn into the monster under the bed.”

“But what if you die?!” Sam’s volume rose, taking Dean aback, “I’m one of the greatest marksmen in 12, better than both you and Dad, I _am_ the better hunter out of the two of us, I could’ve done it! I could’ve won this!”

“Jesus, Sam you’re making it sound as though you _wanted_ to get voted in!” Dean shouted, a bit of hurt in his tone. But the moment he said it, a thought came to him, especially when Sam averted his eyes to the floor, not making a comment.

“No way,” Dean whispered, almost shocked, “Are you telling me that you wrote—”

“I wrote my own name down, yes! What’s the big deal? Makes one less vote for you!”

_(He wrote down the only name ringing in his head.)_

Dean sighed. “Goddamnit, Sam… Goddamnit…”

_(Dean Winchester.)_

Isn’t that what brothers were supposed to do for one another? Watch each others backs?

“I wrote my own name so you could buy the Impala,” Sam said, hushed this time, “So you could get the hell out of here. If I won, then I could follow, leave Dad with the winnings in 12, and I would find you, and everything would go as planned.”

“You know I wouldn’t leave you like that.”

Sam shrugged. “I’d want you to. You don’t deserve to have to watch another Hunger Games, Dean, you already lost your best friend because of them. You could just drive off, away, taste freedom.” He paused, a strange gleam in his eye. “Let’s steal it, right now.”

“Are you being serious?”

Sam nodded furiously. “Yeah. Let’s sneak out the window, go and run and get it, step on the gas and drive ourselves out. Just like we always dreamed. We could go right now! Please Dean, let’s go!”

Sam sounded so desperate, so wanting of the escape, wanting to ensure that his brother was safe and they finally got what they had been searching for all these years. That they could get out of the nightmare.

They just needed to break the window, and run like hell.

But Dean could only look at Sam with sad eyes, encased with a fading hope and a broken soul. “Sammy. We can’t.”

“Don’t say that. Please! We can do this, the two of us like old times! I don’t want you to go, Dean! I don’t want you to go in there by yourself! Just come with me!”

Sam was on his feet now, his eyes _pleading_ that maybe Dean would jump up and say yes. That maybe they could really just go.

In a really small, small voice, Dean’s words finally started to shatter underneath all the weight. “Sam. We just can’t. Stop…”

Sam burst into tears again, and fell onto the couch again, weeping. “I don’t want you to go, Dean. Please…”

Dean sighed, feeling exhausted and tired. It was stressful, this whole ordeal, to watch as someone you love break down in front of you. He switched onto the couch next to his brother and put an arm around him. Really, their places should be reversed. Sam should be 12’s tribute, and Dean should have been the one to loose his shit, crying, freaking out, telling little brother Sammy that no matter what he had to make it out alive.

No matter what.

Because Dean couldn’t live without his baby brother.

“Why did you volunteer,” Sam whispered in between a whimper, “Why did you do that, you stupid, stupid bastard…”

Dean just smiled, almost with a sense of helplessness. “Because I didn’t want to watch you transform into a killer. I didn’t want to watch as your humanity was pried from you. Sure, you’d win. But where would your soul be? I never want to see the fucking Capitol steal you and turn you into a murderer.”

“And you’re saying that you wouldn’t be?”

Dean thought about this for a moment. “Better me than you, ya know.”

Sam inhaled, quivering against Dean’s shoulder. Man, he was growing up so fast. He was going to be so tall and it was gonna win all the girls over and it was going to be so funny when Sam started dating girls and Dean just wondered how a nerd like him…

“I had a dream last night,” Dean blurted out, “It was about you.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, “Was it good?”

A flash of the chapel came and flooded Dean’s vision, through the dusty dim light and through the rain. He saw Sam kiss that girl, and himself cheering as they went back down the isle, hand in hand, bride and groom.

Oh, Dean could not stop smiling.

“You got married, kiddo,” Dean said, “To that Jess girl you always like to talk about.”

Sam leaned back, looking shocked, and rather happily confused. “What?” he asked, and laughed loudly,

_(oh god it was so nice to hear laughter)_

with his head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut. And Dean laughed with him. “It’s true! You two had a full make-out session at the alter and everything! It was gross!”

Sam laughed harder, lightly covering his mouth with his hand. “Dude, no. That’s never gonna happen. She’s too pretty for me.”

Dean punched his shoulder. “Awe, Sammy. C’mon, you gotta go talk to her one of these days! She’s hot.”

“She’s thirteen, Dean.”

“Right. Didn’t mean to sound so creepy right there.”

They couldn’t stop giggling. Like school girls watching cute boys pass by. Dean went on to tell Sam that their parents were there, holding hands, looking so happy. Dean said that when Sam did get married, he had to let him play the piano for the cheesy wedding song.

“Dean, no way,” and for a moment Dean’s heart fell, until Sam said, “You gotta be my best man. Garth can play the piano.”

Dean bellowed chortling at the thought, and he felt very warm on the inside, and it wasn’t because the room was hot.

Because they were having their last good day.

Dean almost wanted to convince himself that this was all some sort of dream, some sort of big joke where the entire world was pulling on his leg, a bad prank that everyone could go home and laugh about for the next few days, still having their fun.

Everyone except for Dean Winchester, who was alone at that comedy bar long after closing, trapped in a dark corner, drunk to the bone like his deadbeat dad.

Wishing he was dead.

This was it. The big punchline to his life, the killing joke.

Dean didn’t get a happy ending.

But for a moment, just for this moment, he believed he did.

In the misted of all of this, their temporary joy, Dean rubbed at his chest, it was beginning to ache, when he felt some alien object resting at the hollow of his throat.

“Hey, Sam?”

With one hand, Dean pulled the amulet off his neck, having forgotten all about it, and held it, caressing a careful thumb over the golden face.

“Was this… Did you mean for this to be a goodbye gift?”

Sam sighed, and gave a slow nod. “I didn’t want to tell you. I knew they were gonna vote me in, and wanted you to have something to hold on to while I was gone…”

Dean stared at him for a minute, before curling the necklace in his hand, and held it out to him. “Here, then,” he said calmly, “Something to hold onto while I’m gone.”

Sam just chuckled lightly. “Nah. I got it for you, man. I want you to have it, so you remember you have a reason.”

“Reason for what?”

“To come back.”

 _(We still_ are _kids, Dean.)_

Dean smiled, and put the necklace back on. “You can use it as your token, if you want,” Sam added, “You know. You get to take an item from home into the arena. Lots of kids take pictures of their family, but I figured since we don’t have pictures anymore…”

That’s right. Like the piano. Like Mom. They’ve never taken pictures since.

“Sam. You’re my best friend.”

“And you mine.”

“Thank you.”

There was that silence again. That haunting silence that was supposed to be peaceful, full of life and good memories. But their silence was a fading pressure, that meant endings, and endings were miserable, something the boys had enough of.

Garth opened up the door, and stuck his head in, looking sad. “One minute.”

Sam breathed deeply. “So,” he said, “What’re you gonna do?”

Dean looked at him with a sort of new found confidence that seemed to be restored, after all the happy talk of Sam getting married. He flashed his slyest grin. “I’m gonna win, Sammy. And I’m gonna cheat like a motherfucker to do it.”

Sam sniggered, couldn’t help himself. Dean always said the strangest (and the coolest) things, and Sam couldn’t help but to admire him for that.

“Tiger, I’m coming back, just you watch,” Dean promised, resting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I’m coming home, we’re buying that Impala, and we’re taking off, just us against the world. You think you can wait for a while?”

“I’ll wait forever, as long as it means that you’re coming home.”

Dean smiled at him again. “I’m so proud of us.”

Garth walked back in, almost looking sad. “Times up, boys.”

They stood up, and before Sam could start crying, Dean held up a hand. “No chick flick moments?”

“No chick flick moments,” Sam agreed, and they hugged one another in a tight embrace, neither of them ever wanting to let go.

And Dean was serious about coming back home.

He hated this town, this country, the fucking Games, the mines, everything. But the one thing he had such love and faith in, was little brother Sammy.

And he wasn’t going to leave Sammy, ever. That might mean he would turn into a killer, that he would get ripped apart, but as long as it meant coming back to this in the end.

The most important person in his life.

They would have to kill him and cut his legs from his body before they stopped him from getting back to Sam.

Because now Dean had hope. A dangerous weapon that he wasn’t afraid to wield.

Just before they pulled away, Dean whispered, “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They gave each other one last cheerful glance, before Sam was escorted out the door, where it closed with a click, and Dean was alone. Dean was all alone, with nobody to save him.

“Goodbye, Sam.”

And then he wept.

***

The door reopened a few minutes after Sam’s departure, and Dean got his hopes up, thinking that perhaps Sam had come back, that they had their extra few minutes, but it wasn’t Sam, and Dean’s heart sank in his chest.

John Winchester gave him a sympathetic glance, and heaved a sigh. “Hey, Dean.”

“Hey, Dad.”

John went and sat on the couch, just as Sam did, and the couch released yet another dusty cloud.

“I don’t know exactly what to say to you…” John started off, slowly, his lips finding words to form. Dean suspected he had prepared something, but had thrown it out the window, the whole damn thing not feeling right in the slightest. Dean wanted to thank him for that. Speech’s were boring. Improv was the reflection of soul and passion, it was where meaning came from.

“You don’t haver to, if you don’t want to,” Dean muttered, twiddling his thumbs around, focussed on it, but still listening. He was fine spending his last minutes with his father in the quiet, uninterrupted, sober. He regarded John was still sober, a small miracle that Dean was grateful for.

“You promise me that if for some reason I don’t come home, you have to clean up, okay? No more of your self pity act. Sam needs someone to be there to raise him and be a good role model. You can’t give up on him just because I’m not there. You have to take care of him, send him to school, make him lunch. He doesn’t know how, still.”

John nodded. “Okay.”

“You never got a real good chance of being my dad,” Dean continued, “And if I get slaughtered in there, you never will. But you can make it up to me by treating him as the most important thing in your life. Put him first in everything. Get rid of the liquor. Play some ball. Help him with his homework. He deserves a real father.”

“So do you, Dean. And I’m so sorry…”

“That you were an asshole?” Dean pitched.

“Yeah. I really was.”

Dean smiled halfway, his eyebrows softening from their frown. “Yeah. But there’s no time like the present to change it around.”

John didn’t reply to that one. They sat, accompanied with the stillness in the air.

“You’re very brave, Dean,” he finally said, “for volunteering like that. I’m happy I could call you my son.” Pause. “If you’ll let me.”

He took a second to think on it. Being John's son. But he was also his mother's son, and his mother married this man for a reason. She saw some good in there, so why not. “Okay.”

“Mary would be proud of you. And dead scared, but we would both know that you wouldn’t let the Capitol overrun you so easily. You’re one hell of a kid, and I’m so happy you love Sam more than I did.”

The time continued ticking away, until Garth entered, and let Dean know that his hour was up. That was okay.

He felt okay.

“Good luck, Dean,” John said, and held out a hand. Dean shook it after some hesitation, but made sure it was a good grip.

“Take after Sammy, you piece of shit.”

John looked as though he were going to laugh. “Will do.” He exited, giving one final wave.

Garth watched as the elder Winchester trotted down the steps, and he swore he could hear a light chuckling coming from his mouth. What it was about, Garth never knew. But he put his head through the door and saw Dean, sitting down on the chair, and appeared to be praying. So Garth, being curious on why a man like Dean Winchester would be praying, asked him about it.

“I never believed in it,” Dean said, not opening his eyes, “But my mother would tell me, over and over again, that angels were watching over me. Angels of who or what, I never got the chance to ask. But I pray to them now, and hope they aren’t dead or blasted from the sky.”

“What’re you praying for?” Garth asked, carefully, incase he triggered some kind of fragile state of mind in Dean’s head.

But Dean just grinned. He grinned that silly, dumb smile that was cocky and confident that spoke in volumes.

He was coming back.

“A miracle,” he said. Although he didn’t now if he would need it.

And, without any way of knowing, a boy across the country was praying for the same thing. A boy with blue eyes and a bow and arrow, a boy who believed in God when no one else did.

A strange coincidence created by the impeccable force known as the Universe.

Without any warning, another man unexpectedly stumbled into the room, muttering and grumbling some not so very family friendly words, his baseball cap on tight and dirty clothes that struck Dean as very familiar, the faded tan vest and the plaid shirt that had seen better days.

“Bobby? What’re you doing here?”

Bobby grunted. “Well, after they dragged you lot off, they had to draw a mentor, Or have you forgotten that 12 hasn’t won a single set of the Games yet?”

This was true. A rule in the Hunger Games was that mentors were reaped out of the pool of past victors. 12 didn’t have that, never had a kid make it home alive. So, mentors were reaped from adults.

Dean frowned. “They picked you?” 

“Nah, ya idjit, I volunteered.” Bobby walked on over, and for the fourth time someone took a seat in that filthy old couch. Couch of endings. “Someone’s gotta be there for ya. Might as well be me. Been hunting for thirty some years now, guess you couldn’t ask for anyone better.”

He slapped Dean heartily on the shoulder. Bobby Singer, the man who had been like family, who was ultimately family. Dean couldn’t be more thankful.

“C’mon, boy,” Bobby said, “Let’s get on that train. The longer you stay, the harder it is to leave. Until you do.”

***

Sam went home. A mix between jogging and walking, frowning at the dirt path ways and roads. He didn’t cry. Not for the rest of the day, and it would be sometime before he cried again. He stuck his hands in his pockets to protect them from the rain, a chill passing through his spine.

It was odd. The way he felt.

Dean had gotten him high off of happy ideas and gleeful thoughts, a high that was coming down at a slow pace, wearing thin. But what it left was hope. Dean could do it. He really could. Sam just wished that he would look out for himself sometimes instead of always throwing himself in traffic to defend the people he loves.

A blessing and a curse.

Sam walked, passing his house, and went to the electric fence by the forest instead. John would be back home soon, and Sam didn’t feel that the time was right to start repairing their relationship. The memory of him kicking Dean on the ground was still rather vivid. The electric fence was never on. The Peacekeepers had been very kind as to pretend it was broken, leaving hunters and trappers to search for animals that they could make into their next meal. Sam leaned against the chain links, arms crossed and above his head, his brow brushing against the cool metal, and it felt nice and wonderful.

Looking out at the forest, Sam recalled good memories of him and Dean going out there, Dean always with a firearm, Sam with his bow. Dean would always make jokes that Sam was some kind of Legolas (a reference he didn’t understand; Dean had picked up an old book one day at the Hob and would always make jokes or puns from it… Something to do with rings or something similar.) They would go and scout, Sam usually after the deer, Dean looking for bears or mountain lions, the more vicious and harder to kill animals. Sometimes, they wouldn’t capture anything at all, and would run after quail or try and catch rabbits with their bare hands. They would look absolutely ridiculous, but they did it for the sake of challenge, always winding up with a face full of mud and swear words and stupid grins.

Sam missed it already.

He missed Dean,

_(bean)_

missed the dreams, missed the giddiness and the guitar and everything and it’s barely been an hour since he last saw him.

But Sam reminded himself that he didn’t have to worry, really.

Dean would come back.

The Impala would be there’s, Sam would do some extra hunting to get that spare change, buy the car fair, and when Dean got home, they would be gone, 12 in the rearview mirror.

Sam looked foreword to it.

A piercing whistle screamed shrilly, some distance away, and Sam peered up from his little daydream. It was the train. The train that would take Dean away.

He gave another quick glance at those woods, full of good times and disappointments and excitement. They wouldn’t be the same for a while.

Nothing would be.

And before Sam even realized it, his legs had moved, going into a full out sprint, pumping against the ground. He was running, feet striking the wet grass, his shoes getting soaked, but Sam paid no mind to it.

The crisp rain air entered his lungs, refreshing, clearing his head. Oxygen driven straight to his veins, the world blurring behind him.

He ran through the town, past the bakeries and the butcher’s and the Hob, never stopping, never getting tired. People that saw him that day would stare at him with a curious accusation, or with a sad smile, because they knew he was running for his brother. Never before had they seen someone so speedy, sprinting as if their life was on the line. And he was running so goddamn fast to catch that train, because he wanted to the last word.

He wanted to say goodbye.

Just in case.

His legs had carried him to the station just as the train began to move, at a study pace increasing speed, and Sam wasn’t going to let it get away so easily. He jumped on the tracks, breathing hard, trying to make it, trying to get there, because his brother was on that train.

_(thank you bean.)_

Of course, Sam was only human, and although he could go fast, trains would go faster, always. But that didn’t mean he was defeated.

Oh, no.

That meant that he had hope in Dean, who said heroes don’t exist in the arena, but didn’t realize he had been wearing a cape and tights all along.

He was Sam’s hero. Had always been Sam’s hero.

He would come back. Finally, the train was slipping out of his grasp, and Sam stopped, hands heavy on his knees, his heart thundering so loud and his hands were freezing, but he didn’t care.

He got the last word.

And as he watched that train go, somewhere far away, Sam smiled, one last tear escaping. “Goodbye, Dean.”

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading again guys! It's super appreciated when people actually read this fic, it warms my heart. 
> 
> This might be the last update for a while now, as I have school starting tomorrow. The 11th Grade wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't taking four core classes and one diploma course, so the next chapter will probably take longer. I'm sorry for the trouble. 
> 
> Oh, and if you came to this fan work looking for smut, don't worry, it's coming. Just slowly. This is a very slow build fic, and I hope I can keep you interested until then. 
> 
> Until next time,  
> Marina


	6. Chapter 6

**REAL**

Dean had never been on a train before.

A bursting desire to travel had always been there, though, he just had figured it would have been with him in the driver’s seat of the Impala, on the high road, with the gas pedal to the floor and flying to some unknown destination like on a magic carpet. He never would have guessed that his first real trip from home would be in a big-shot fancy train, skimming over the tracks at hundreds of miles per hour. It was almost terrifying going at such speeds. More terrifying was the destination, but Dean had taken a moment to just forget about that to try and enjoy the ride, and to let his head take him away to somewhere else. Anywhere else.

He sat in the last compartment of the train, on a long curved couch on the back wall. Above it was a wide window that showed the world fading away from him, as if it were being sucked into a vortex. A black hole that took even light down with it.

Dean watched as “home” left.

_I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore._

They certainly weren’t in Kansas, that’s for sure. He had read about a place with that name in a book he had purchased from the Hob one day, but whether or not it was indeed a real place was beyond him. Perhaps it was, but outside the boarders of Panem. Dean doubted it. It was probably just another fictional place, along with Middle Earth and Wonderland. However, a girl named Dorothy had lived there once. Then a tornado had come along and sucked her away from her home, and she had landed in a weird world called Oz, such a different and magical place where there were witches and stuff. Dean could’ve laughed, thinking this was just him being dragged into the calumnious cloud, and instead of the Capitol it would be a quirky land with talking tin men and scarecrows and cowardly lions and they would go on wild and wacky adventures together…

Trees were flying by and the train tracks were rushing fast behind them out the window. All very eerie, the world slowing for no one. Already Dean was so far away from home, from Sam, and it felt lonely and he wished he could just go back.

It could be a long time—or never—until that happened again.

The door at the front of the compartment slid open, and it just about startled Dean right out of his seat, who had spaced out, thinking that if he made it, how happy he was going to be on the trip back to 12. Bobby walked in, grumbling off about something that Dean’s ears couldn’t pick up on, and pulled a chair close to Dean’s couch, and sat down.

“Well. How’s the view?”

Dean shrugged. “Long,” he said, “Dizzy. Kinda hate it the farther we go…”

His voice lingered with that last word, in a dazed type of tone. Bobby nodded. “To bad we ain’t got no choice in what views we get, kid. Especially when we know where we’re going.”

Dean chuckled.

What a shitty train ride it was indeed.

Sections of fields flew past, and Dean could see wheat growing in a few of them. He wondered briefly what life as a farmer would do for him, then trashed it. He hunted, there was a big difference. Besides, he wasn’t cut out to be patient for the crops to grow.

“Looks like something’s bothering you, Bobby,” he said rather suddenly, just noticing the furrowed lines on the old man’s forehead. That was always a sign.

Bobby sighed, and adjusted his ball cap. “That girl hasn’t stopped her damn crying,” he muttered, exhausted, “It’s been two hours that we’ve been on this ride and she hasn’t stopped. Just locked herself in the bathroom. I’ve tried coasting her out, tried waiting, but she won’t listen.”

“Just gotta give her time,” Dean replied, “She’s scared. Has every right to be, and she probably feels betrayed. They voted for her. I have no idea how, but she was just unlucky this round.”

“And you?” Bobby asked.

Dean hesitated. “Would’ve worse had they taken Sam.”

“Typical,” the older of the two snorted, and Dean smiled a bit. There was some quiet between them for a minute, until Dean decided it was a good time to get up and check out the rest of the train. There was still time before they arrived at the Capitol station, and maybe if Dean was lucky enough—

“They got any books in this wreck?” he turned to ask Bobby before the compartment door closed on him.

“Why do you want books? You don’t read, do you?”

Dean cocked his head. “I went to school, old man. And besides. It’s a boring life, Charlie Brown.”

Bobby gave Dean a straight mouth look that said loud and clear _you’re not very funny Dean Winchester_ but of course Dean knew he was hilarious.

“Three doors down going your way.”

Dean smirked. “Thanks, Bobs.”

“You call me that again and I’ll slice your throat open myself.”

And, even five minutes later when Dean was long gone from the last compartment, Bobby could still hear him laughing.

***

He found an old bookcase right where Bobby said he would, and just about grinned at the sight of it. It would seem as if he had forgotten about the Games all together, but of course he hadn’t. He was trying to suppress the memory, and slowly it was working.

His eyes scanned the titles, which there were quite a few because it was a decently sized bookcase with six long shelves. He dragged his fingers across their spines, searching for nothing in particular, rather just something to entertain him.

After a while, Dean just picked one up at random, and sat down to read it, but less than ten minutes later he snapped it shut.

Boring.

Not distracting enough.

So he tried again, and found that the end result was the exact same.

He almost wanted to give up on this mother load because there just wasn’t anything eye catching that he had the attention span for, until his gaze landed upon a strange little hardcover, and his curious hands picked it up.

It was short, and on cracking it open, he saw a few pictures and realized it was in fact a children’s book. It was less than ninety pages long, with a maroon colour to the cover and no title.

A children’s book.

There was a certain sadness to that.

And then Dean wondered if maybe Benny had picked up this book.

Instantly a part of him just wanted to put it down and abandon it, find something else, but at the thought of Benny sitting down to read it, to pass the time, to forget, he couldn’t help it now. So, with the small story in hand, he started looking for a good place to read.

A while ago, he used to read all the time, always picking up cheap and falling apart copies of old books at the Hob. Lots of the times the front covers would be missing or pages would be falling out, but Dean didn’t really mind. He liked to read, he liked stories. His mother had liked them, too. She would read to him, and he would be caught in perfect awe at the fiction, captured. Even after she died, Dean didn’t want to stop with the stories. At home there was a small collection that had ceased expanding due to Dean working in the coal mines and just having not even time to read anymore, and Sam was to invested in his schooling to pick one up every now and then.

Which was too bad because he had no clue who Legolas was and it was really a shame that Sam would probably never meet his Middle Earth alter ego.

Dean wandered around the train, just looking for a nice spot. There were a few he tried and he found he just couldn’t get comfortable, and it was bothersome.

That’s about the time he passed the bathroom, and his ears picked up a miserable, high pitched wail from behind the walls, nearly giving him a heart attack.

The door was closed, but of course you could tell who was behind it. There were only five people on the train—Dean, Bobby, Becky, Naomi (who was at the front of the train and failed to even acknowledge the tributes’ existence), and the driver.

Poor Becky. Thirteen years old and terrified. Dean didn’t blame her. He was scared, too, just good at hiding it. The Games were created to install fear, after all.

Her sobs and whimpers would be really quiet, for a split second, as though she were trying to hold it all in, then they would rush back out, like a wave crashing onto a beach.

Maybe he could try something, at least.

He didn’t like it when kids cried.

Softly, Dean knocked on the door, and her crying subsided momentarily.

“Becky?” he called gently, “It’s Dean.”

There was no verbal response, but she had gone back to her weeping.

Dean could only sigh, and think to himself, _I suppose it’s worth a shot_.

He put his back to the bathroom door and sunk to the ground, where he sat comfortably, and propped the book open on his knee. He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. It’s been a while since he’d done this.

Story telling.

But he did it anyways.

“There once was a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning, he really was splendid.”

He paused, listening for any signs of the girl, wondering if she even cared if he did this. It was hard to tell, since he was on one side and she the other, but all he heard was silence, so he continued.

“He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen…”

It wasn’t a bad way to spend time, just reading out loud, smiling a little as he went. Dean became so wrapped in the charming little tale that he actually forgot that he was on a train going sub-sonic speeds, forgot that the reason he was reading was to hopefully comfort Becky. He forgot that she had existed, that _he_ existed.

That’s what stories do to you. You simply forgot the world, and it was blissful.

He read about how the Rabbit was put away into a cupboard with other toys, and about the Skin Horse who had lived in that nursery longer than anything else, and who was also incredibly wise.

“ _‘Real isn’t how you are made,’_ said the Skin Horse, _‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.’_

“ _‘Does it hurt?’_ asked the Rabbit.

“ _‘Sometimes,’_ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. _‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’_ ”

There was something really wonderful and really… Real, in what the Skin Horse had said, that Dean had actually stopped to look over the lines again, and again, getting his head around the idea.

_When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt._

Interesting.

A small voice, not Dean’s own, spoke, for the first time in what seemed to be a long time. This was the first time Dean would ever hear Becky speak, and he didn’t know it at the time, but he would get nightmares about the words she told him, he would wake up in the middle of the night, feeling so guilty and angry because she was just an innocent girl, and the innocent and the good were always the first to go in a cruel hell like this.

But Dean cherished these words.

“Can you keep reading?” came the whisper, barely audible, “I want to know if he becomes Real at the end.”

Dean smiled at this. “Sure,” he said back, and resumed, words sliding off of his tongue like butterflies taking flight, smoothly and gracefully.

He missed reading to Sam.

He didn’t notice it, the way the tranquility engulfed him into a blanket. Because it felt like home, for a little while. It felt like Dean Winchester was eight years old again, telling baby Sammy a story to rock him to sleep, especially on the nights where John was loud. Loud and drunk and violent and sometimes there would be a bruise on Dean’s cheek but he would ignore it and lie to Sam saying he got it fighting a dragon and Sam would beg for more detail so Dean would make something up.

Then Sam figured out who the real dragon was, and stopped asking one night.

Dean kept reading. He read about when one becomes Real they are usually worn down, broken and shabby, but that didn’t matter to people who understood. About how the Rabbit was called Real for the first time by the Boy. How the Boy got scarlet fever. How the Rabbit and all the other nursery toys had to be burned because they were riddled with germs. He read about how the Rabbit was saved from the flames by a fairy, because the Rabbit had shed a tear. A single, Real tear. The Fairy said she was going to make him Real.

“ _‘Wasn’t I Real before?’_ asked the little Rabbit.

“ _‘You were Real to the Boy,’_ the Fairy said, _‘because he loved you.’_ ”

And Dean found that his voice cracked slightly. This was a story that wasn’t meant to be sad, but he couldn’t help but feel some emotion tugging at his chest and his throat closing a bit. He didn’t cry, but there was some strange feelings with this book.

It wasn’t sadness, or happiness or anything like that.

But it was _hope_.

In the end, the Rabbit had become truly Real.

What a crazy little story.

Dean closed the book, and bounced it lightly on his knee, thinking it over. He waited with hesitation, once again listening for Becky. It was still rather quiet.

“I would read to Sam all the time,” he said gently, “Helped both of us calm down.”

Still nothing.

Dean got to his feet and brushed his pant legs off. They hadn’t given him any time to change out of his formal Reaping attire, and it was stuffy. His body felt numb from sitting in that position, despite the book being short and the time not being long.

With book in hand, he started to walk away, made it halfway down the compartment hall when the bathroom door creaked open. Just a few inches.

There stood little horse faced Becky, who Dean had never met in his life until today, never knew she was even alive, who was skinny and blond and had big teeth. But still an innocent little girl.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and shut the door again.

“No problem.”

Dean felt for the pendant at the hollow of his throat, and squeezed it tight. “Thank you, too.”

***

“So,” Bobby asked as Dean entered that back room again, “Find any interesting reads?”

“Yeah,” he answered, “I read it to Becky. She still didn’t come out, but I got her to stop crying.”

But it wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

“That’s good,” Bobby replied, “Although I suspect she’s probably gonna have another breakdown. These are hard times for you kids. Stupid, stupid times, and I wish we could do something about it, but we can’t.”

He had some kind of drink in his hand and sipped it, looking frustrated as hell.

“We could start a rebellion.”

“Ha! Look where that got us, kid.” Bobby laughed, but it was a sad kind of laughter, the hopeless kind. “I wish, but the thing is if we fail again…

“I was there, ya know. For the Dark Days.”

Dean nodded. John had told him and Sam, and instructed them to never talk about it. Sensitive topic, although sometimes when Bobby came to visit and the boys were supposed to be asleep, they would over hear some things.

“I still remember when they brought on the Games, how bad we all wanted to riot, but with District 13 blown to pieces, we were all scared that it was going to happen to us, too. So, we lived in fear. Fuck it, the worst goddamn days of my life. Of all our lives.”

Dean listened, not saying anything in return.

“You know, I think you actually have a chance of making it.”

He turned his head to Bobby. “Dad said the same thing.”

“I know, and your dad is one of the dumbest fathers I have ever met in my life. But you do, Dean. You really do.”

“What about Becky?” he asked, voice low.

There was a dreadful hesitation before an answer came, and when it did, Dean’s heart dropped.

“To be honest… I don’t think she’s gonna last five minutes in that arena. Even with as much training I can give her, I don’t think she’ll get very far.”

And so Dean thought on this for a moment.

Pretty much all his life, he knew how to hunt. He could use a gun efficiently, he could shoot a bow and arrow (although never as well as Sam,) he could do hand-to-hand combat, he wasn’t bad at what he did. The training leading up to the Games would improve that, sure, but Becky…

“Then give her that much.”

Bobby frowned. “What?”

“You heard me,” Dean said, “Bobby, if she has no chance then I want you to _make_ her a chance. She’s thirteen, she’s scared and has no idea what she’s doing. I can make it on my own. For training, focus on her. Please.”

“Dean. You do realize that even if I do that, and if you want to get out as badly as I think you do—as I know you do— then she’s going to die, no matter what, You realize that, right?”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t give her some hope.”

“It’s false hope,” Bobby countered, “And it’s a lie.”

“Lots of things are lies. Why would this one be any different.”

A pause.

“Don’t just abandon her, Bobby,” Dean begged, “She’s a kid who should of had more to life then what she got.”

Bobby was considering this, Dean could see that through the deep lines on Bobby’s face and the frown, almost like suspicion.

“Why do you care so much?”

That was a good question.

Why did he?

Dean just shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Bobby just sighed, rather loudly. “Well, balls,” he said, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give her a few tricks. Maybe she’ll do okay. But listen. She’s not gonna live through this, no matter how much we want to get both of you out. It’s either you or her, and I think we both know which of you is making it. In that arena, no one is your friend, they are not your brothers or sisters, or anything. Just chess pieces that Crowley wants to play. Targets. That means Becky, too.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to be the one to kill her.”

“No. But someone is.”

There.

There it was.

The nuke on the city, and the explosion that followed.

“I understand,” Dean finally said, after some heavy thinking.

“Good. Because once you’re in there, it’s just going to be you. You’re almost to compassionate for your own good.”

But that wasn’t the truth.

Cold blood ran under that boy’s skin, and anger bled red.

_Only if they catch me._

***

The train was slowing down.

He could feel the shift in gravity tug at his stomach, a very strange feeling after skimming the earth at thousands of miles an hour.

He had no idea, though, that when they finally stopped, what he was supposed to expect when he exited those doors.

Naomi had come to escort them out. After all, that was her job. Escort the lambs to the pens, into the slaughterhouse. She had her hands clasped neatly in front of her, her bun and grey eye shadow perfect as ever. Minutes before, Dean had gone back to the bathroom, and rapped his knuckles against the door.

“Becky, you have to come out now,” he had told her, “I know it’s not easy, but we’re cornered. And I’m so sorry that it was your name that got voted.”

Becky had opened the door to that, and Dean had held her hand, shaky and sweaty as it was, and lead her down and towards their fate.

They still held hands when Naomi explained that there will be photographers and reporters, and they were to ignore them. They held hands through the crowds at the station, almost fighting against the swarm of glittery bodies and vibrant hair and abstract clothing. The adults led the way, Bobby swearing and yelling at the reporters to back up, with questions and flashes of light coming off left and right from cameras. They held hands all the way through that, Dean making sure that Becky was still behind him, her fingers digging into his palms.

He held her hand because she was a piece of home, and as much as he hated 12, hated so much about it, that little girl belonged there and Dean was so sorry the rest of the world wanted to steal her away like that.

They were kids.

Not killers.

Dean kept his eyes to the ground, following on the thin path the best he could, Becky stumbling to keep up. He didn’t pay attention to where they were going, his mind numb with the realization that this was reality, and he was facing it. No longer stuck in the nursery with the Rabbit, or the Skin Horse, or with fairies or magic or Oz.

_I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore._

Oh, he wished alright. Dean Winchester was a man who wished, and although he hadn’t met him yet, Castiel Novak was a man who prayed. Their similarity in that context bonding them through the universe and all it’s mysterious ways. Dean wished for an escape, Castiel for a reason not to become a murderer, and in some odd way they were going to meet and become one another’s answer.

Each other’s miracle.

But Dean had no idea.

Right now, he just wished that everyone would just disappear, and they could go home.

Because even the home Dean despised was better than this.

Barely realizing it, someone was tearing their hands apart, and Becky was absolutely terrified, panic in her eyes, but Dean had nodded and yelled to her over the noise _You’ll be fine._

He hoped he wasn’t lying.

The rest of it became a slow and steady blur from that point, but he remembered it. There were two people that led him into a room, a male and female. The female had extremely bright red hair that resembled fire and blood mixed together, her eyebrows were unnaturally arched and she had a bunch of red and black glitter lining around the right side of her face. She was very smily. The male was different, though, not as joyed as the girl. He was growing a beard that appeared to be one from forgetfulness and stress rather than fashion. He wore long purple feathers in his hair, however, to match the silk shirt and strange black tattoo on his arm. He and the girl talked quite frequently, but Dean picked up on almost none of it.

“—I wonder what she’s got in mind for this one, he’s really pretty this year—“

“Charlie, she’s got a plan. Ellen always has good plans.”

“I know, Chuckie, but this one can really put on a show if she does it right…”

“If you ever call me Chuckie again—“

The first thing they had him do was force him into a bath. Dean was silent throughout the entire thing, although the two Capitol weirdoes—Chuck and Charlie, he presumed—continued their chat, Charlie running her fingers through Dean’s wet hair, which made him uncomfortable. She was washing it with a scented shampoo that almost made Dean choke with the overwhelming sweetness of strawberries and pomegranates. They talked as though Dean were deaf, or simply not there at all.

“He’s really handsome this year,” remarked Charlie, “Like, wow!”

“You’re a lesbien, Charlie.”

The girl scoffed at this. “Just because I like girls doesn’t mean I’m blind.”

However, the most uncomfortable scene came when they waxed his body hair. Chuck did this, and at the same time looked Dean with an apologetic gaze.

“I’m sorry, but this _is_ going to hurt.”

Every last leg, chest, and underarm hair came ripping off his skin (as well as in a few other places we will fail to mention). They even plucked his eyebrows, and by the end of it, Dean found his eyes watery from the stinging rushing up and down his body like an electric wave.

Charlie combed and dried his hair into a fluffy clump on his head. Chuck did very minimal make up, just some blush on Dean’s cheeks (which was a new experience, because Dean had never worn make up before, and he instantly hated it).

The only good thing he felt was somewhat cleaner then what he had gone in with.

They had given him a fresh bathrobe to wait in, for what, he was unsure. But Chuck and Charlie exited, leaving him to himself, and with crossed legs on the chair, he tried to think. Of anything, really, but nothing except for whatever was next to come flooded his head. The paranoia settled in.

They talked about a woman named Ellen, almost with trembling voices, and that made Dean wonder.

The door clicked open, and he sat upright, meeting the dragon in the dungeon, and was met with an unexpected sight.

Dean guess it was her. She was older, at least in her late forties, with long brown hair with a slight bounce in it. A few natural wrinkles lined her face, and a thin mouth that wasn’t really mean. She was clad in black pants and a black turtleneck, and, like Naomi, wore little make-up. Her eye liner was smudged into smoke, bring out the darkness in her eyes.

She looked almost normal, if normal also meant kick ass.

“So,” she said, snapping her tongue, “Dean Winchester. The boy from 12, volunteer, and just as beautiful as they had warned me. Pleasure to meet you.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t objectify me.”

“Relax,” Ellen smirked, “I’m not here to sexualize that face. I’m here to help you survive.”

He cocked his head sideways, in a curious but obnoxious manner. He liked to come across that way with strangers. “How so?”

“Well the more people fall in love with you, which I’m sure they will, then the more you get sponsored. They help, Winchester. It might just save your life in that arena, the support of the crowd.”

“So you plan to have everyone pick me as their favourite. Dress me up to be their precious doll?”

“That is the plan, kiddo. The object of the game is to give you the best shot possible in your own little war zone.”

Dean couldn’t help but snigger. “Yeah, it’d help if I was that Novak kid. The entire country is already on their knees for the guy and his fucking blue eyes.”

“But you’re not the Novak kid,” Ellen countered. “You’re a whole knew star, son. This place is gonna blow up when they see those freckles.” “I don’t have—”

“Angel kisses, sweetheart. You’ve got plenty. Anyways…”

She took extra strides foreword, each step with a certain swagger, a certain _I know how to work this junkyard because I_ run _this junkyard_ grin. Leaning foreword, just so the two were at eye level, she whispered something quite remarkable, and fantastic.

 "I'm your designer. But I'm also very creative, and I also don't like rules."

The words that came out of her mouth were of the apocalypse, and immediately, Dean decided he liked her.

“Now. How much do you want to bring down the Capitol?”

There was a twisted smile on Dean’s lips. “That’s a weird question. On a scale from one to ten?”

Ellen nodded.

“Eleven. Now what do you have in mind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long update on this chapter! This was my first weekend off and so I wrote like crazy, and I'm sorry if it feels like this chapter was rushed. However, the next one is going to be a lot fleshier.
> 
> The updates will hopeful not be this spaced out in the future, but my school courses do take priority over writing (which is a sad truth), but whenever I have days off then I'm typing away.
> 
> The next chapter is going to have the very first encounter between Castiel and Dean Winchester, and let me tell you, it's a very strange encounter. It actually happens twice, the second one much more odd.
> 
> Thanks for reading, thanks for waiting! May the odds be ever in your favour!
> 
> \--Marina


	7. Chapter 7

**Blood, Ashes, Sugar Cubes**

If there was one thing that the people of the Capitol loved as much as they loved the Hunger Games, it was the goddamn tribute parade that they always had to kick it all off.

The citizens absolutely adored it. Mostly because, to them, the tributes were like characters in a fiction novel. Everyone had a favourite. Everyone had bets to how the book was going to end, which character was the protagonist, who would come out on top to keep the story rolling. They were like the wolves, with ever searching gluttonous eyes for their pick, drawn in by fancy make-up and fake smiles and unique costumes, drooling all the while.

Readers are hungry people, always thirsting…

The Capitol were the wolves, the tribute’s, the sheep. It was a hierarchy. And on top of this unfair system, the one who held the rope to release the guillotine blade, stood Crowley. Crowley, who was a revolutionary man. A man with words that were snakes, that could twist the weak minded people of the Capitol under his finger, and force everyone else to their knees.

At the end of the parade, he would present his speech, and the crowd in the round colosseum would give a cheer, and everyone could go home.

Everyone except for 24 rats, all

_(trapped in a cage)_

biting at the dust, wondering exactly if home even still was in existence. If home was even still a possibility.

Castiel usually wasn’t the fidgeting type. It was rare to see him twitch, to move out of rhythm and out of time like he was doing now, twisting and weaving his fingers in and around one another. On any other day, he could stand completely still, fifteen-pound bow cocked and loaded against his rough jawline for hours, if necessary, inanimate as a windless evening bringing darkness from the horizon. Give him any other day, and he would strike down five full grown bucks in that position, barely breathing, barely moving.

But this wasn’t “any other day.”

This was the start of the 25th Annual Hunger Games. The very first Quarter Quell, a bullet hole in history. And he was seated on a pedestal, the centre of attention. He didn’t have that bow and arrow. He wasn’t in the woods, or at a shooting range, and the deer weren’t just deer anymore.

Castiel was the main course of the banquet.

And it was one of the most horrifying experiences he ever had in his life.

Unfortunately, not the last.

He didn’t stand alone, however, although that didn’t seem to make anything easier.

The costume was hot, he had to admit. The warm day and the weight of it on his shoulders was making beads of sweat fall into his eyes, which he hastily moved to wipe away. Costumes were created and designed to reflect the District, and the production of the District. District 1 was luxury items, and since District 1 was luxury items, Castiel found himself roasting in wear similar to that of First Nation chiefs. An ancient style of clothing, from the very beginning of time itself. Spectacular, bedazzling. Gideon claimed that he had designed it all himself, and Castiel couldn’t deny it’s wonderful detail.

A headdress of lengthy feathers framed his face. They weren’t real feathers, of course, but ones crafted from gold and diamonds, glistening off the sun in almost perfect contrast. A silk poncho covered his shoulders and torso while his pants were baggy and beaded with pearls at the waist. Much of the make-up was golden tinted, encasing his blue eyes like the fires that forged jewellery. It made his face feel heavy, but he didn’t complain. Anna’s was all the same, with the exception that her headdress was a tiara encrusted with opals and rubies.

Together, as a pair, they looked astonishing. Intimidating.

A perfect team of murderers.

But they weren’t friends.

They had never even said a proper “hello.”

They stood side by side on their chariot, despite this, Castiel continuing to twitch and fiddle, Anna staring directly ahead, focussed. The horses were slightly restless, the occasional whinny running the air, their hooves trampling the dust. It was nerve racking, listening to them, and it made Castiel nervous. For what reason, he didn’t know. Horses never bothered him before. Every experience he held with them had been a gentle encounter. Hell, he remembered Gabriel taking him to 1’s annual carnival every February when he was a little kid, and dragging Gabe by the wrist to the petting zoo, and being amazed by the sheer height and majesty of the horses, and always asking to ride on them, and always holding on for dear life, but they were such beautiful creatures that it was worth the fear.

God’s favourite. They had to be, with their handsome coats and their strong legs, everything that God had wanted humans to be.

He wanted them to be _good_. Not sinners, but horses with the strength to carry themselves to freedom.

But today he wasn’t that excited child anymore. He wasn’t dragging his big brother to the petting zoo. Yet, the soldier’s uniform was still too big…

Without saying a word to Anna, not caring on what she thought, he jumped off the chariot, headdress feathers banging his shoulders. It was getting tiring, supporting the heavy thing with his neck, so he removed it and held it in hand, his forehead reflecting cold sweat. It didn’t matter, though, because Castiel was already too busy walking to give a damn about his edgy nerves.

The tunnel was cool inside, shielding from the sun and the large tsunami of people that waited outside. The only thing it didn’t protect him from was the sneers and glances of the other tributes as he stumbled past their carts and their horses, never making eye contact.

 _Don’t make eye contact with the dead,_ Castiel reminded himself, _unless if you want their eyes to haunt you._

He kept going though, occasionally getting a glimpse of outfits and of stylists giving tips to win the crowd over, using hand gestures. He caught a few words here and there, tips to win over the favour of the people and how to wave and how to show off. He focussed on the walking. Kept his head down.

Castiel felt much calmer when he was walking, as if time were slowing down.

 _(as if he_ had _more time)_

And the thing is, is that Castiel would have continued walking down that tunnel, right out of that colosseum until Peacekeepers or guards or someone stopped him, at least. He would’ve gone until his knees gave out and he tumbled into the dust, and even then he would continue to heave himself foreword with his arms. Castiel would keep going on until the world ended, and then some, his head swirling with a sense of confusion.

Why was he here?

Why did the Games even exist? What was it’s point, besides to install fear into everyone’s heart and their minds,

_(by declaring war on terror you declare war on yourselves)_

to have children— _children_ —massacre one another?

What was the point?

To make sure they wouldn’t step out of line?

Well, of course that had to be the reason. No one knew what Crowley could have up his sleeve, what other threats, other tortures.

After all, District 13 had tried to stand up for themselves, and look what happened to them.

Castiel would have continued walking until there was no more earth beneath his feet, but his journey was cut incredibly short by something rather unexpected.

A person was speaking. Not an officer or authority figure, but just a normal person. This person caused him to stop in his tracks.

_(started the apocalypse)_

He was drawn, quite suddenly. A voice was speaking, and he was pulled towards it. A cat to a birdcall. A voice made out of… grace.

That was the word Castiel used to describe it.

A voice forged in grace.

And that particular voice said this:

“…You have to keep it a secret, okay? No telling your horse friends, no exchanges, nothing. I went through a lot of trouble to get these cubes for you two, so don’t go ruining things for yourselves by blabbing…”

Castiel whipped his head around. It startled him, this voice. He had walked past the long line of decorated chariots, and it seemed… it seemed that he was alone. Him and the horses of 12’s charcoal cart were all to be seen.

But the that voice was heard again, and his skin jumped, and he was wondering where the hell this voice was coming from, or if he were just imagining things—

“That’s a good girl.” A bit of a friendly chuckle. “Sammy would be so jealous right now…”

And that’s when Castiel noticed him for the first time, a body hidden behind the two large mares that would pull 12’s tributes. This body had all the normal anatomy of any other human body, one of it’s hands’ pressed against a horse’s face, gently stroking her nose. The opposite hand was feeding her something.

 _Him_.

It was a man.

He looked unusually happy for someone who was reaped for the Hunger Games, a calm smile playing his lips, but Castiel didn’t assume he was a tribute, although the thought daunted him for a brief second. He wore no fancy costume or make up, just a comfortably fitted grey shirt and black pants, that although incredibly dull, looked good on him. For all Castiel knew, he was just a stableman, tending to the ponies.

This boy had leaned in and lightly pressed his forehead against the horse’s own, still petting. His eyes closed.

It was peaceful.

Again, another paradox.

The light was dim, but that didn’t stop him from seeing other details in his character. His hair was nicely cut, and whether it was dark blond or light brown bested Castiel. The lighting was too poor. He could see freckles, a bit like stars across the bridge of his nose, forming constellations like the universe itself.

 _Pretty face, pretty man,_ Castiel thought.

And then this man opened his eyes.

And Castiel saw something absolutely phenomenal in those eyes.

Because amongst the stars and those constellations, there lay Heaven, in a strident green brighter than anything he had ever seen. There were angels and peace and glory and it was so awe striking that Castiel could’ve gasped, would’ve gasped had his mind not been running with the ideas that were soaring high with the birds, that were stealing his words away.

He saw Heaven in those eyes.

One might say that this was the exact moment Castiel fell in love with this man. The exact, pinpointed moment in all of time and space and even outside of those variables, where his heart came to a stop, and burst, and the entirety of the Universe crumpled from the explosion.

People will say that this story began with the cliche of love at first sight, and I am here to state otherwise.

It wasn’t love.

It was damnation.

“Hey.”

Castiel froze, and he nearly panicked when he realized that this boy was staring back at him, with a curious expression that was awfully adorable.

His throat closed up on him, and he wasn’t sure why. Why was it so hard to talk? Was it because he was attractive, or because he had noticed Castiel standing there and it was merely embarrassment?

But he found his voice.

“Hey.”

_(no don’t talk to him don’t you dare talk to him no no no no don’t talk to him you’ll never see him again no don’t talk to him)_

The boy smiled, flashing his teeth. “Looking good in the make-up, buddy.”

_(castiel don’t you dare talk to that boy because you’ll never see him again don’t get attached)_

Castiel smiled back, tempted to rub away the ridiculous eye shadow. “Thanks,” he replied, “But it’s heavy. And uncomfortable. I have no idea how the people here do it all the damn time.”

The boy gave a snigger, his face collecting laugher lines. Light and easy, hands sliding off the horse and crossing at his chest. And oh my soul, was he ever stunning. He had build on him, and Castiel wondered what kind of lifting he was doing in those stables.

He held out a hand,

_(well no going back now)_

“Castiel.”

The boy took it with a firm grip and shook. “Dean.”

Rough hands. Working hands.

“So, Castiel,” Dean let the name roll off his tongue in such a way that it made Castiel’s spine shiver, “What District you from?”

“As if you can’t guess?” He motioned to his costume, and Dean raised an eyebrow to go with that charming smirk.

He laughed, and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Guess it should’ve been obvious.”

Wow.

Beautiful personified.

It was hard to look away, so Castiel didn’t. Dean’s green eyes

_(windows to heaven)_

were incredibly captivating, and almost immediately he wanted to escape in them. He wanted to get himself lost in them.

Dean reached into a pocket, and pulled out a sugar cube. “I know I told the horses there weren’t any left, but horses don’t understand English anyways, as far as I know. Want one?”

Castiel reached out and took it, not putting it into his mouth just yet. He held it softly in his palm instead. Dean, however, pulled out a second one and popped it in, sucking on it, savouring the sweetness. “Not exactly healthy,” he said, “but who doesn’t like a little bit of sugar every now and then?”

Castiel couldn’t help but grin at that remark. “Touché, touché…”

Suddenly, there was a loud siren that went off, wailing, echoing off the dark walls. It cause Castiel to jump, but Dean had no reaction. Probably because he had heard enough of those sirens over the years to be used to them.

And as if to confirm his suspicions, Dean sighed. “You gotta be kidding me. Already?”

“What is that?” Castiel asked, still wincing at the loud shrieking.

“That’s the signal… Gotta go find Ellen now… Damn.”

And Castiel caught it.

The half second Dean’s eyes trailed to the ground, and there was something there, something that replaced that small piece of Heaven Castiel was finding such joy in.

Fear.

But just as soon as it had come, it had gone.

“The chariots are making their entrance in five minutes.”

Was that disappointment Castiel was feeling? “Pleasure meeting you.”

Well, of course it was. He had been enjoying himself.

The corner of Dean’s mouth shot upward. “Until we meet again, Cas. Now eat your sugar.”

Castiel returned the gesture, and he was pretty sure he was red in the face, but he didn’t care. He wore a dumb, wide grin as he walked away, and finally put the little cube in his mouth and allowed it to dissolve. So sweet.

Cas.

No one had ever called him Cas before, and straight away, Castiel liked it. His entire life he had been addressed as his normal namesake or “Cassie,” which he hated and Gabriel loved to tease him with it.

_Until next time, Cas._

Such a strange boy.

Castiel made the mistake of looking back, though, and he just about choked on air. A woman had approached Dean, who was still on the last chariot. She looked old enough to be his mother, and she wore a smoky eyeliner and a black turtle neck (he wondered if this was Ellen that Dean had mumbled about). And for some reason, Dean was stripping off his grey shirt.

He walked a bit faster, trying to suppress his stupidly silly grin. He had gotten a good look.

Maybe another day, before the start of the Games, he would see this weird boy again. If he were lucky.

Now if only he had caught sight of the knife that was in the smoky-eyed woman’s hand…

***

“Smiling! You gotta smile big for them! They love the idea that you care about them as they care about you.”

 _Which isn’t caring at all,_ Castiel sighed to himself, _we’re just entertainment to them._

Gideon was Castiel’s stylist, and was incredibly excited over this event. His hair was long and fell halfway down his back, and he had a beard in a braid that fell down his broad chest. Gideon was the last person you’d expect to see as a fashion designer, but here he was. Tall, buff, and into dress creationism.

It was hard to dislike him, however, and Castiel knew that he was just doing his job. Trying to win them favours, better chances at surviving, coming out on top as victor. He was a kind man, a gentle man who treated Castiel as a person rather than a play thing.

“Keep your chin up, kiddo, I can see yer sweating,” Gideon added, and Castiel couldn’t deny it.

“I don’t want to put up this fucking facade,” he muttered, surprised at his own violent tone. But he was upset.

Gideon rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I know. But ya gotta blow them away anyways. I like you, kiddo. Go rock my outfit. It’s the last thing you have to do today.”

And without warning, the carriage lurched off, Castiel and Anna leaving Gideon behind.

And, last minute, Castiel couldn’t help but glance around, and think, _Where’s Lucy?_

_Where’s big brother?_

***

Everything went as expected.

Castiel joined Anna on District 1’s chariot, and they rode out together, Castiel wearing a fake grin to match. They waved at the cheering crowds, and when the announcers reported his name over the intercom, the Capitol citizens went absolutely wild.

_(wolves biting at our ankles)_

He had no idea how Lucy did all this without freaking out or breaking down.

He had no idea how any of them did it.

The fast and sudden jerkiness of their cart made his stomach waver. Blood ran into his cheeks and in his vision he saw double, thinking _oh no oh dear please don’t be sick._

But he kept up the act, pretending as if he really wanted to be there. Anna didn’t come across as enthusiastic, but she waved, and the people gave a grand response. Castiel even caught a quick glance at one of the large screens, camera panned to his face. Dean had been right.

The make-up looked good.

The memory kept his smile close to genuine.

The chariot arrived at the end of the trail, soon joined by District 2 and their tributes suited in bulky Peacekeeper uniforms, then by District 3, in LED suits that were terrifying and rather ghostly. Castiel had managed to keep his guts from spilling out, and his cheeks were sore from all that damn smiling. He hoped that Gideon was happy with his performance and let it droop, rubbing his jaw. The two of them stood still as the carts came pouring in, one by one, each of them pretty unique, all forming one giant semi circle around the presidents podium.

Everything went as expected.

Almost.

Twenty-two tributes had come through, 11 chariots.

Castiel frowned, and was incredibly tempted to lean over to Anna and ask where District 12 was. They had all come through with such a rhythm and strategically spaced so that the Capitol would have enough time to soak in all of the children

_(the soldiers)_

before indulging in the next set.

_(sinking their teeth)_

But 12 was no where to be found.

Everyone else seemed to realize that too, and there was a concerned mummer floating about. The announcers were also questioning through their microphones, although Cas wasn’t listening. He was just wondering.

That’s when a scream pierced the air.

That’s when there were a thousand gasps released all across the country.

And Castiel found one of those thousands of gasps leaving him at last.

Finally, in came District 12, the two mares leading calmly. Standing on the carriage, shaking, was the thin frame of a girl, wearing a black tank and skin tight pants. Her face was long and she had large teeth, but the most astonishing detail was that she was coated with soot. It gathered in her blond hair, and one her cheeks ran paths where tears had come streaming through, shining like dull metal. 12’s female tribute.

But something called artistic contrast exists.

Standing beside her, shirtless, stood the male tribute. There was blood, so much blood coated on his skin, on his face, in his hair and just everywhere and for a moment Castiel couldn’t breathe.

Because it was Dean who wore all that blood.

Dean, the handsome boy he had been chatting with just minutes earlier.

Dean, the boy with freckles like constellations and with Heaven in those green eyes.

Dean, who liked a little bit of sugar every now and again.

Dean, who was drenched in red, while a broken smile played on his lips. Such a haunting smile.

_(oh so sweet)_

Castiel couldn’t feel his heart beating. And it started again only when his eyes found one of the big screens, and it shattered.

There were words carved into his back.

 _Carved_.

With the sharp edge of the dagger, and still dripping blood. The sentenced stretched from in-between his shoulders and down to his mid back, crude. Crude and daunting, and they would become the nightmares of Castiel’s dreams.

_**You cannot destroy me.** _

Dean’s right hand was curled loosely around the girl’s wrist, appearing to be gentle. While she was weeping with her sorrows, he was smiling in his.

Oh.

Castiel breathed in the symbolism, and it made sense. The coal was achieved by bloodshed. By death.

It made sense, except for that message. Unless…

_(unless his interpretation was wrong)_

_(calling for a revolution)_

The chariot came to a halt, now joined into the semi circle. The crowd still consumed in their shocked silence. The girl and Dean were across from District 1, and Castiel didn’t realize that he was staring, until Dean’s eye caught his.

And Dean sent him a wink.

It was quick, catching Castiel off guard, unready, and he almost thought for a second he had been directing it at Anna. But he knew better.

President Crowley had come to the podium, tapped the microphone once with a thud, and went on with his speech. “People of the Capitol, tributes of the districts, and all those watching at home—“

But Castiel wasn’t listening.

He couldn’t look away, no matter how horrifying the scene, blood pounding in his ears, a current through his veins.

This boy was beautiful. A horse.

 _God’s favourite,_ Castiel thought, _He has to be God’s favourite._

Despite the thought, Castiel had mistaken Dean’s eyes. They weren’t reflecting Heaven anymore.

They were burning with hellfire.

One might say that this was the beginning of the greatest love story ever told. People will say that this was the day that Castiel Novak fell in love with Dean Winchester, and that was the single most important detail, the turning point. And it was.

But it wasn’t the beginning of a love story. As much as we all want to be, this is not a love story.

This is a tragedy.

On that day, in that single spilt second, Castiel Novak was destined to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the greatest love story ever told. An angel afraid of falling and a man afraid of flying.
> 
> Just in a different universe.
> 
> I'm so sorry again for the wait and I'm sorry if this chapter seemed rushed, I just am losing lots of time due to school and trying to get writing on my own novel. However this fic is taking over my life and I quite enjoy writing it and getting comments from all you wonderful people :)
> 
> Safe & Sound has reached over 500 reads! Woah! So thank you all so much for that! My heart is exploding that people actually like it.
> 
> The next chapter I am super excited to write.
> 
> The greatest love story ever told continues...
> 
> \--Marina


	8. Chapter 8

**Escape**

The Book wasn’t as comforting as Castiel usually found it on nights like these.

He was up in his room now, sitting cross-legged on the king sized mattress, flipping through pages and pages to no avail. His glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose, occasionally slipping down and occasionally an absent finger would rush to push them back up.

_Flip. Flipflip._

“C’mon, give me something,” he muttered, exhausted from the day, “Just something to get me to sleep…”

A little droplet of water fell from his jawline and stained the slim pages. His hair was still wet, plastered to his forehead from the shower he had taken half an hour ago. The water pressure had been magnificent, and the temperature perfect, and he wished that he had stayed in for longer. It was blissful. Caused forgetfulness.

For a while, he had been able to forget everything. Announcement Day. Gabriel’s joker smile. The reaping,

_(he didn’t want to kill anybody)_

the train ride, the parade, everything. Everything was so easily disposed.

The one thing that wouldn’t be shutdown, close without a fight, was the memory of _him_.

Castiel was running the heavily scented shampoo through his dark hair, feeling the ghostly touch of the soap suds trail down his back and down his calfs, when his imagination started acting up, starling him.

_Freckles scattered like constellations._

His mind until that point had been in a state of absolute oblivion. Empty. Dark. Spacious. Castiel was a astronaut, floating, breathing slowly, but not afraid. He embraced the loneliness.

And now, the astronaut was seeing things due to lack of oxygen, due to the dark, and that’s when it started to get scary.

_Freckles scattered like constellations, and among those constellations and in-between the hundreds of stars lay Heaven in a radiant green. That boy had Heaven in his eyes. He was an angel, a mustang. God’s favourite, an angel overseeing the city, protecter, fighter, rebel, with an arrow through his heart, Heaven fading, hellfire blazing, Castiel firing another, and another, until the boy was no more—_

At this point Castiel had turned off the shower, dried himself off, with soap still in his hair.

When he first saw Dean Winchester, he had thought he worked in the Capitol’s stables.

Oh, what Gabriel would say if he could see Cas’ face. _Ouch… sorry, baby brother. This really sucks that good looker is another competitor, but you know what they say…_

And Castiel would look at him curiously until he finished the sentence, which would ultimately be something cheesy and something that wouldn’t help at all. It was what Gabe is built off of. At least he tried to help Cassie out.

_…some things can happen. Some things won’t. Just come back home. That’s all._

Cas missed him.

He missed Gabe, Balthazar, even the rest of his brothers. He missed his father, his mother, wherever they were. Maybe that was Heaven. Maybe they were lost.

He had seen Lucifer a while ago, and had noticed the dark circles under his eyes. Lucy though seemed as cheery and charming as ever, and clapped Cas on the shoulder, and told him what a good job he had done, impressing the Capitol like that. Exactly what older brothers were supposed to say. Then he had gone somewhere, and Cas found himself alone again.

Never the lonely type, Castiel.

Not until tonight, where he realized that loneliness was a conquering force, and it was conquering him.

So he had propped open the Book on his lap, and began to search for a comforting verse.

But it seemed as if the Book had come dry with answers, with relief. He would scan the thousands of pages, and nothing stood out. Nothing to give him that wanted solace, to offer as distraction.

Lucy always said that the two hardest nights were the first away from home, and the first in the arena. And Cas now knew why.

It’s because you’re not used to being alone, and then the only company you have is yourself. Castiel even had God, but someone you could not see, only sense, didn’t bring much calm to the shivering nerves.

To be alone is a deafening silence,

_(i can hear the devils scratching from underneath the earth)_

and to be alone means your own thoughts

_(i can hear the angels cry)_

and it means that if you really wanted to you could destroy yourself before you destroy anything else.

What a depressing thought.

 _You cannot destroy me._  Those words came back to him, and he wished they would disappear. They hissed at him, bled in his mind, and he could see the deep carvings in that boy’s back. It was haunting.

Castiel closed the book, then reopened it, randomly landing himself in the book of Corinthians. His eyes gave the pages a run down, until a verse caught his eye.

_And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love._

_—Corinthians, 13:13_

Not helpful.

Cas wasn’t in love with Dean Winchester. It was lust, nothing more than sinful lust. A crush that needed to be demolished before entering that arena. If Cas wanted to make it out alive, Dean Winchester was going to have to die, and that was simple.

But there was a secret hope in his heart, that was praying away, kneeled at the alter of a church, whispering and begging that it wasn’t going to be him to kill Dean.

That would make it easier. He imagined himself, fighting with a bow slung across his back. It would be night time. That day he would have heard several cannons, all firing off, making his skin crawl, and he would look into the sky and see a projection of Dean’s face, and he might be sad, but it would also mean one step closer to winning, a step closer to making Lucy proud and going home.

Castiel wasn’t in love with Dean Winchester.

It was only lust.

But he couldn’t shake the picture of those paradox green eyes. The way they captivated him.

Closed the Book. Opened it again.

_Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God._

_—1 John, 4:7_

And Castiel wondered if Dean believed in God. The answer was probably not. After all, how many theists did he meet nowadays? As far as Cas knew, he was the only one that existed in all of Panem. No churches stood anymore. Holy Books were cremated at public book burnings. It was almost impossible to become a Believer because of the limited resources, so the answer was probably no. Dean Winchester was not a believer in God.

_Let us love one another._

Castiel wished he could. He wished that the Games would go away. He wished that he was at home and had never heard of Dean Winchester, had never seen his face, had never spoken to him.

He wished he didn’t have to become a murderer.

The Book wasn’t helping, rather forcing him to make philosophy on the Hunger Games and ideals of love and lust, and all it was doing was making Cas’ head hurt.

_Until next time, Cas._

Now, the question remained: had Dean been playing with him all along? Messing him up? He knew that Cas was from District 1, he knew he was a tribute.

Was the hospitality

_(flirting)_

real, or just a strategy?

Gently, he placed the Book on the bedside table, and slid off the mattress onto the carpet. He kneeled by the bed, folded his hands on top of the blankets, and closed his eyes.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Repeat.

_(the devils are crawling through the earth, feasting)_

Tonight he prayed.

_(the angels draw their blades)_

He traced the cross on his body, his index and middle finger acting as art brushes. Forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder.

“Dear Father, dear God…”

What do you say on nights like tonight?

“I am feeling lost. I’m lonely.” Castiel paused. Where were the words, all the right words? They had gone from him now, been stolen by hesitation’s kiss, by an overthought. What could he say?

“And I’m scared. Lord, I am so scared… I don’t want to go into that arena. I don’t want to be here at all. I’m scared I’m going to die in there. Even worse is the fear that I’m actually going to win, and I’ll have so much blood on my hands.”

Another pause. Thinking.

“I just need to know I’m not alone. Please Lord, grant me at least that. But let me forget the Winchester boy. If it turns out that I… that if I’m the one to kill him, then make it easier for me. Make it painless. Make it fast. Give him a quick death.”

_Make it fast._

_Make it unseen._

“Amen.”

Once again, he repeated the sign of the cross, and stood up.

The window curtains were drawn back, and Castiel stared longingly out into the night sky, barely visible under the Capitol’s light pollution. Some stars, however, were strong enough to peak through, and he gave them a smile. Even on the second floor, he was presented with a magnificent view of the city, and found it surprisingly quiet for a place with a rambunctious reputation.

He hated it. But had its dark history never existed, it would have been his favourite place in the world.

Although the night was growing older, Castiel had the sudden urge to go and walk somewhere. Just down to the lobby, maybe, they’d never let him out of the building unless escorted. Anywhere would be good, for five minutes. Then he would go to bed, dream,

_(have nightmares)_

and get ready for training the following morning. It was a good little plan. He just wanted to feel that humanity existed. That it was alive.

In socked feet, Castiel got up, and left the room, without realizing that his glasses were still on, but that didn’t matter for the moment. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see him, most of the world was already asleep. The door clicked quietly behind him.

Anna was in the room across the hall from him, and somewhere down the hallway was another room where Lucifer would be staying. There was doubt that Lucy was actually in there, probably off talking to old Capitol fans and friends and old stylists, perhaps, freely prancing around at a bar. He was an incredibly social type of person, and Castiel could understand that. Being famous, you kind of have to be.

Slowly, he tiptoed his way down the hall to the elevator, pressing the down arrow, waiting patiently, listening as the elevator slowly descended and made its stop. The doors opened, and the compartment was empty. He stepped in, pressed the button with the big letter G inscribed on it, and the elevator went down. It was a glass elevator, and was cylinder shaped, showcasing outside and the vibrant lights. The floor was also glass, and Castiel had a frightening vision that maybe the base would crack under his feet, shatter, and he would fall to his death.

Castiel wasn’t afraid of death. Death was just a destiny that all men had to meet. An unavoidable variable in the experiment of life. No matter what you do, how you played the game, you would always end up in the same place as everybody else. In death.

It wasn’t death Castiel feared.

It was of _dying_.

His heart leaped into his throat, and when the elevator landed he practically leaped from it, blood pounding in his chest.

Paranoia was settling in.

And of course the second he leapt out he instantly regretted it, because this story is full of regret and wishful thinking and amazing things and it has to get us somewhere.

Upon arrival into the tower, Cas had caught a brief glimpse of the baby grand piano that sat off to the right of the entrance (or, looking at it from the other side of the room with the elevator, the left). It was made from black wood and polished and sparkling in every way, but Cas had merely forgotten about it, and this was because he didn’t have musical talent, and couldn’t play.

But there was someone who was playing it now.

_(once is accident)_

It was a boy, seated with his back straight and his fingers lightly pressing the keys and the sound serenading and echoing off the floor tiles, beautiful notes being struck and it was simply wonderful…

Now the boy should’ve been able to have seen Castiel, the way the piano was positioned, but he looked too focussed on the actual piano itself and which chords he was hitting.

A smile was on this boy’s lips, causing his freckles to shine like all of the galaxies, and the hellfire that had been in his eyes the last time Castiel saw him had diminished, and a kind glimmer replaced it, burning twice as bright, brilliant suns.

_(twice is coincidence)_

Dean Winchester could play the piano. Always could, and Castiel had no idea that he used to own one, and that it was his mother who taught him and that his very first song on it ever was “Hey Jude,” by the Beatles. Castiel had no idea in this moment, in this second, that the beautiful piano the Winchester’s kept for years and years had burned away, so Dean had transferred his talents to an old guitar, but the muscle memory had remained for all those years, never quite forgotten or left behind to perish in flames.

The skill remained, and it was beautiful, too.

_(three times)_

And then, he started singing.

_(is a pattern)_

It was soft, as if he were worried that someone would hear him, as if he worried that he would bother them, but really he shouldn’t have been. Dean’s voice managed to carry to Cas’ ears, and he swore that time itself stopped, then and there.

Time stopped because Dean Winchester sang.

Time stopped because an _angel sang._

_“I know I can’t take one more step towards you_

_‘Cause all that’s waiting is regret_

_Don’t you know I’m not your ghost, anymore_

_You lost the love I loved the most._

_I learned to live half alive_

_And now you want me one more time…”_

He struck a powerful chord, and it resonated, and it sent shivers down Castiel’s spine.

Castiel wasn’t in love with Dean Winchester.

It was just lust.

But there was no denying that this boy was indeed God’s favourite. To say anything else would become a lie.

_“Who do you think you are?_

_Running ‘round leaving scars_

_Collecting your jar of hearts, tearing love apart._

_You’re gonna catch a cold_

_From the ice inside your soul_

_Don’t come back for me_

_Who do you think you are?”_

And he kept going. The pace increased, and, little by little, his voice grew louder, and stronger, and he played with his eyes closed, and all of this fantasticated Castiel, and he couldn’t help but stare. It was a calming song, a sad song, but strangely calming. It was like attending a concert, and he found his shoulders relaxing, and he leaned against the wall. Listening.

_“I hear you’re asking all around_

_If I am anywhere to be found._

_But I have grown too strong,_

_to ever fall back in your arms.”_

Listening.

_“I’ve learned to live half alive…”_

Wanting it to last for a long time.

_“And now you want me one more time.”_

For a very long time. Not forever.

But, for a while…

He didn’t even realize that the song had ended suddenly, and almost had a heart attack when a voice came from nowhere, and said two dreadful words.

“Hey, Cas.” 

Castiel's eyes flew open, only to meet Dean’s green ones. He was no longer seated at the piano, but was standing up, a bit of surprise written on his face. He wore a grey shirt and black pants and Castiel wondered if they were the same ones he wore from before the parade.

And then Castiel began to wonder all sorts of things. He wondered if Dean was feeling okay after the parade, if he was suffering from the blood he had lost, if he had gotten his wounds clean, if when he showered it the words etched on his back burned, if blood went spiralling down the drain.

He wondered, and never asked.

Cas nearly choked on his words, trying to sputter them out. “H-Hey.”

He wanted to groan at his stammer, but Dean seemed unaffected by it. By contest, it brought something different to the conversation.

The surprise was replaced by a quirky, sort of lopsided grin. It sure as hell looked goofy, but it was definitely cute and Castiel could feel his heart racing.

_(no no no castiel novak dont you dare talk to him do you hear me you stay away from dean winchester hes dangerous kill him kill him stab him make him go away hell kill you slaughter you end you)_

“Well. I guess ‘next time’ came quicker than I expected.” He put a hand on his hip and the other gave a short wave.

How could his voice be so steady?

How?

How could someone be so calm, chatting lightly to an enemy, to someone fully capable of slitting their throat without a second thought?

Why was he treating Cas like an old friend?

This was the Hunger Games.

People don’t have friends in the Games. Only one survives.

Why was Dean acting like this?

Cas only nodded. “Y-Y-Yeah, I guess so.” He gave a nervous chuckle, trying his best to let it come off as natural and failing.

He had to get out of there. It was all a trap, all of it. Dean was luring him like a fish to bait, it was all some sort of trap, he had to get out, he had to get out—

“Cas.”

Castiel nearly screamed, but muttered a faint yelp instead. He hadn’t noticed that during his few seconds of panic, Dean had crept up on him and now stood less than two feet away. “Dude, you okay?”

Cas realized that he’d been holding his breath, and now sucked air in. He nodded, quite furiously. “Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he mumbled, “I just need some sleep. I just need some rest.”

And without even saying a goodbye, Cas retreated into the elevator, hit the 1, and the doors closed.

He looked the other way as Dean watched him go up, disappearing from his sight, trying not to meet his eyes.

Not wanting to be judged by Heaven.

***

 _Damn it, Cas,_ was all he could think on the way back up, and even stopped himself when he realized he had started calling himself “Cas”.

When the doors opened, it took everything in his power to keep from running in a full out sprint into his room, slammed and locked the door, and collapsed on the bed. He curled himself into a tight ball and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to believe that his encounter with Dean hadn’t happened.

_(its not love its just lust)_

He had stuttered. Castiel hadn’t stuttered in years, not since he was five or six, maybe once when he was ten. It was something he had grown out of a long time ago, and yet, it had found its way back, and made Castiel its unsuspecting victim.

Biting on his tongue, eyes squeezing so hard that he saw stars flash, he felt the blood in his cheeks rise and fall, and Dean was so handsome and Castiel felt so conflicted. His glasses were smushed into his skin.

_(not love just lust)_

This silly crush had to end now. That was it. From that moment on, he would see Dean as no more but another player in the Games, another tribute.

_(another kill)_

Dean was nothing more than the boy from 12.

That’s it.

No more.

Cas lost track of time, after a good while of self pity and ridding impure thoughts from his mind, cleansing himself. It would have been around a good hour, until something utterly remarkable happened. Something remarkably odd.

There was a rapping of knuckles against Castiel’s window.

He shot upright and turned to face it, all of the air deflating from his lungs in a silent scream, and he nearly fell off the bed in shock.

Hanging upside-down, outside his window, was none other than Dean.

Still with that dumb smile all over his face.

Dean was waving. Castiel just stood, wide eyed and frozen, jaw to the floor.

How the _fucking_ hell?

Why did it have to be Dean? Out of the other twenty two tributes and the twelve mentors in that very building, it had to be Dean.

Well of course it had to be him, now, didn’t it? It was always Dean.

Dean was motioning with one hand now, as if beckoning Cas to come and unlatch the window, but Cas shook his head. No way, no how he was gonna open that window. He just spent sixty or so minutes trying to wipe Dean from his memory, and now this?

But Dean had those pleading eyes on, and plus with that smile and the way his hair fell with gravity…

Castiel sighed. Dreaming. He was probably dreaming. He had fallen asleep in his embarrassment and now he was dreaming that Dean Winchester was pulling some crazy stunt outside his window.

Not happening.

Castiel sat back down on the bed and threw his head on the pillow, clasping his hands on his chest, and willed himself back to sleep.

But the knocking only continued, getting steadily louder and louder that Castiel figured that if this wasn’t a dream, a Peacekeeper would hear the racket, and who would get blamed then?

So he went and opened up the window.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, whispering as if there was anyone else that could hear, “You left kind of suddenly.”

“Dean, what the hell?!” Cas hissed back, throwing up his hands, “What the hell is this? What’re you doing?!”

Dean shrugged, the best he could do while upside-down. His face was fading into a deep red. “Well, isn’t it obvious?”

“No, it’s not! That’s why I asked!”

Dean began laughing. Giggling, almost. “Ah, you think I only managed to pull this off so I can see you. And not only do you think that, but you want me to admit it. Well, I can tell you you’re not wrong.”

Suddenly, his body lurched to the left, and Castiel took a step back in surprise. Dean had gotten himself upright, perching like an owl on the windowsill.

“Playing Spiderman does stuff to you,” he said, peering out past the ledge and down as if he still had a long ways to go. Just now, Cas saw the rope tried tightly around his hips and harnessed around his shoulders, and the coil that remained in his hands.

“Who’s Spiderman?”

“Never mind,” he quickly brushed the question off, “Listen. I need to ask you something—“

But Cas was impatient. “Where’d you learn how to do that?” he motion at the makeshift tack, “And where’d you get the rope from?”

Dean’s quirky smile kept growing.

“For your first question: I worked in mines for a good year and a half. It’s mandatory that when we dig tunnels, we wear these. To pull the bodies out. To answer your second question: I ain’t telling.”

_To pull the bodies out._

That line stuck with Castiel. He didn’t know why, by it struck and it stuck.

_To pull the bodies out._

“However,” Dean went on saying, “We don’t have a lot of time right now, and maybe I’ll tell you later—“

“What’re you talking about?”

“Cas, if you don’t stop interrupting, you’re never gonna find out.” Dean said this in a mischievous manner. Teasing.

Immediately Cas went silent, and Dean continued. “Right. So we don’t have a lot of time. By now someone would have heard me scaling the building and they probably know I’m trying to bust out, so the big question I’m here to ask you is if you wanted to come with me.”

Castiel blinked a few times. He was greatly confused by this, all this information at once. “What?”

“Come with me,” Dean repeated, that sly smile getting bigger by the second, "Let’s break out of this joint. Make a run for it.”

There was the sound of muffled footfalls coming from above them, and now the smile was gone.

“C’mon, Cas, please.” And he offered his hand out, stretched out, begging for Cas to take it. “These Games… They mean nothing. It’s not honourable to stay and fight, possibly dying, probably killing. What’s the point if we can leave? Don’t you want to live?”

To take his hand and run.

It was tempting.

It was the most tempting thing he had ever had offered to him, so easy to take hold of and to just run.

Run where, though?

And with _Dean_ _Winchester_ , on top of it all—

Cas could only stare, dumbfounded. “Dean… I… I can’t…”

More footfalls, this time sounding louder. A bit of shouting was heard through the walls.

They were getting closer.

Dean sighed, eyes glancing down. As if disappointed. "Damn. Oh well, guess I can’t choose for you, then, can I? Otherwise it wouldn’t be a choice.” He gave another wink, making Cas’ heart skip a beat. “If I see you again, well that’s a bonus on my watch. And if I don’t…” his eyes glanced up for a brief second, flashing their flare.

He bit at his lip.

“Castiel Novak, have a good life.”

Without warning, he suddenly fell back out the window, and Castiel gasped, forgetting about the rope, and looked out, only to see Dean practically running against the glass of the building.

It was absolutely amazing.

When Dean got to the ground, Cas could see him weaving his way out of the makeshift harness, and once out, gave one final salute in Cas’ direction. He decided to humour him, and gave a salute back, sure that Dean was smiling, and he ran to the chain link fence that surrounded the tower, jumped it, and he was gone.

That boy was always smiling.

And that was the scariest thing.

Before he knew it, Castiel had reached for the rope (how in the world had Dean gotten his hands on such a long piece like this?), now hanging loosely in the breeze. He had no idea where Dean got it (if he ever saw him again, he’d ask), but he was pretty sure that if he was caught, and they knew he used this as his escape tool…

Cas didn’t want to think about the things they’d do to him. Crowley was an evil man. He’d think of something special.

He pulled the rope into his room, lassoing it around his arm until it got too heavy, then he let it tumble onto his carpet, pulling it into a mound until all that remained was the long stretch that reached from floor thirteen all the way to floor two. That was some distance. Cas gave it a tug. It was stuck, and even though it was dark outside, someone was bound to see it. It was like abstract art, so blatantly obvious against the glass. He gave it another tug, yet still nothing.

There was some shouting coming from beneath him, and Cas looked down, and saw three Peacekeepers, all running, and all of them stopped underneath his window.

“You!” One of them pointed at another of the group, “Stay here! We’re gonna go get him!” Two of them took off, while the third stayed put, a baton in hand and a gun slung across his shoulders.

Castiel looked hesitantly back up at the rope, then back at the Peacekeeper, then at the rope.

He nudged his glasses a little higher on his nose.

“You owe me, Winchester,” he muttered, and with a grunt, heaved on the rope, and felt it give in. It came falling like a giant snake from the sky, and he ducked inside his room to avoid being hit. And before he knew it, he heard a large thump.

Upon looking back outside, he saw that the rope had struck the Peacekeeper, who was now on the ground. 

Cas prayed he wasn’t dead, and lured the roped back up as quick as he could before anyone else could see, and tossed the whole thing underneath his bed.

For the next hour, he sat on his windowsill where Dean had been, offering his hand and potential freedom, the Book opened on his lap. He waited long past midnight, just to see if they managed to catch him or not, and if Dean got away. There was some loneliness after he left, the faint echo of that song rushing through Cas’ head, the words, his voice, the angel's song.

He hoped to God that he got away.

His hand had been right there…

Now Castiel asked himself some things. Like why didn’t he go with him? Was he scared that Dean was lying and secretly trying to murder him before the Games even started? Had he become that paranoid and that untrusting? Was this really what life had come to?

To being afraid, always worried who might put a knife in his back?

“Son of a bitch!”

Castiel’s stomach fluttered up at the sound, and instantly his heart fell out of his chest.

That was Dean’s voice.

He hadn’t gotten away after all.

The guards had opened up the fence gate, and were quite literally dragging Dean back inside, each of them with a shoulder, Dean’s feet dangling loosely behind him and struggling to get out of the hold.

“Let me go! C’mon!” Dean spat at them, sounding furious, “You fucking assholes, let me go—!”

“Don’t make me taser you again, son, because I will if you don’t watch your mouth!”

Dean held his hands up defensively. “Well sorry officer, I didn’t mean to offend your goddamn ego, after all, I’m just a kid who’s gonna die and doesn’t mean anything to the world."

And, as if for good measure, he added, “And your dick’s so small your friend over here wouldn’t suck it for fifty bucks!”

The officer had it, dropped his shoulder, and whipped a punch to Dean’s face. Cas sucked in a breath.

“Piece of shit,” the officer kicked Dean in the gut, and this time Cas had to look away, and he could hear every time the Peacekeeper landed an attack, and every time that happened, Dean would groan or spit out some nasty remark and it was painful to listen to.

_(its not love its just lust)_

Eventually, the beatings stopped, and the two dragged Dean back into the tower.

The boy’s rebellion was no more.

Later that night, Castiel would wake up in the middle of a dream, one where he had taken Dean’s hand but they had slipped and fallen somewhere on the way down, plunging into some deep abyss with devils and fire and flames, Castiel getting ripped apart and Dean trying to defend him as he lay dying.

Castiel would wake up from this dream, horrified, but would fail to recall it, words forming on the tip of his tongue.

Dean tried to escape, and he had gotten caught.

But what if…

He fell back asleep again, with an idea buried in his mind, sticking out like a sore thumb.

This was the night Castiel made a plan. And this was the night that Dean Winchester earned a new nickname.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that went by quicker than I expected!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the faster update and this chapter. Let me tell you, it was fun to write! Dean might explain Spiderman to Cas later...
> 
> Once again, thank you all for the comments and kudeos, they mean so much! They're really what keeps this fic going, is that encouragement that people actually like it! So thanks big time!
> 
> The chapter updates might be slower again for a while, but Castiel has a plan in mind and he's thinking that maybe he should share it one night... What an interesting meeting that would make. 
> 
> Hope you are having an amazing day! 
> 
> —Marina


	9. Chapter 9

**Poor Broken Bird**

As much as Dean didn’t want it to show as he entered the tower’s training gym, every square inch of him ached with a passion.

It was obvious, even in his sorry attempts to cover it up. His left eye was now an impressive shiner, his cheek supporting a purple and green bruise. Every step he took displayed the crystal clear limp, his weight favouring his right leg. And, although invisible to all other eyes, his chest, ribs, and back were now decorated in flourishing shades of green and yellow, and in some spots, a dark blue. Even in that cheeky ass grin of his you could see the effort he was putting into keeping the corner of his lip turned up, every few seconds or so wincing.

Over night, Dean had become a rainbow of hurt, a flower that had been crushed by the weight of reckless children, running about and screaming, not caring about what life they sucked away in every stomp.

Naive children will do that. They destroy things, subconsciously, because they don’t know they are causing hurt.

Of course, there were rumours when Dean stumbled in that morning. They started when the boy tribute from District 4 (it was thought that his name was Adam,) had muttered something about Dean being stupid enough to pick a fight with another tribute, and in the seconds it takes for someone to snap their fingers, the idea had spread like wildfire. It caused a lot of tension later on, people wondering who the other guy was, but of course they wouldn’t figure it out until much later that there was no “tribute vs tribute” brawl. But for now, they believed. Another rumour that will spread is that Dean hadn’t chosen to fight anybody, but rather ganged up on by opposing districts. A smaller, much more ignored theory, but it was there. After all, no one else could be see supporting wounds. And everyone knew, just by the quick study of his determined face, that Dean Winchester wouldn’t go down without getting a few of his own hits in.

At that time, only four people actually knew that Dean Winchester had “convinced” (more like bribed) Chuck into “finding” (more like stealing) a length of rope over the distance of eighty feet long, where Dean then proceeded to use said rope to scale a tower thirteen stories high, jump the chain link fence, and try to sprint his way to freedom. He then “surrendered” (more like was captured), then beaten by the guards, and finally was towed back to his room on the top floor.

Four people know that those were the exact events, and four people knew for certain that there was no fight, no brawl. They knew the truth behind this wreckage of an escape artist.

However.

Only two knew that on the way down, he had made a visit, stretched out his hand, and whispered, _Let’s break out of this joint. Make a run for it._

Only two people knew the entire story, of when Dean Winchester reached the ground, how he had saluted the boy who had turned down a chance of freedom, had turned down a chance to run with him. A boy with blue eyes, who shot arrows like an angry, murderous Cupid on a mission, had _ironically_ shot Dean Winchester down, like another deer in a wheat field.

Not only that.

But he had _hesitated_.

And maybe that was the key to the picture when Dean made his way into the gym that morning, because despite the jerks and stabs of pain he felt every time his foot moved foreword, his good eye blazed and an over confident, over cocky smile curved on his split lip.

Confident, because Castiel Novak had _hesitated_. A mystery, no doubt about it, and it would bother Dean for the rest of the day. But the hesitation gave him a little spark of faith.

Ash would call him a “battle born asshole,” and Dean would laugh, and smoke another cigarette in that flooded mine, watching the TV screens.

Oh _god_ , how he missed home…

He missed 12, as bad as he hated it. He missed the shitty rainy weather, the toxic coal air. He missed his guitar in the bedroom closet, missed the Hob and visiting the Impala everyday just to make sure she was still there. He missed Garth, he missed Ash, he missed Sam.

Dean never thought of himself to be a homesick type of person. But that was because he had never left home before now, and one does not know homesickness until they had left the nest, knowing they may never fly back.

_(ill wait forever as long as it means that youre coming home.)_

Dean began to gently rub the tender side of his face, but quickly realized with a quick jab of discomfort that it needed to be left alone. Perhaps it would’ve been healed already, had Bobby not smacked him early this morning upside the head…

***

And now, to add to the discomfort and terrible memories from last night, Dean had to deal with the drumming headache that pounded in his ears, out of beat and out of tune. A high pitched ringing blinded him after Bobby’s hand collided with his face, and he bit his tongue to keep himself from cussing at the old man.

“You did what?!”

Dean sighed, blinked a few times to get the black spots dancing in front of his vision to fade, seated on the edge of his bed, shirt on the floor, body littered with marks, the deep red scars still etched into his back. It was early in the morning, and Dean’s head was throbbing from hungover pain and his almost successful escape plan.

Never in his life had he heard Bobby sound so upset about anything. He was everything John wasn’t: Proud, understanding, caring. An actual father who helped raise Sam and Dean both. But now Dean tries to save his own skin, and he’s disappointed.

“You could’ve broken you’re neck! What if the rope snapped?”

“Bobby,” Dean muttered, “They’re gonna kill me anyways. I had to try.”

Bobby scoffed at this. “Yeah, and leave Becky behind like that?! I thought you cared about her!”

“And I do,” Dean stood up, flinching at the soreness in his muscles, “And I offered, too! I tried to convince her that we could get out, but she’s scared of heights! She was drop dead terrified, no matter how hard I wanted to persuade her! I didn’t want to leave her behind, but that was her choice, Bobby.”

His voice had climbed to a frightening level, the level Dean used too often on a drunken John, but it didn’t scare Bobby Singer one bit. Bobby Singer was built from iron, and John was only helium, and men built from iron are more stubborn than anything in this world.

“Don’t be bullshitting me, boy,” he spat out, “You were just hoping that your dumb ass would some how be able to escape. Hell, maybe you wanted to bust your spine on there—”

“You know that’s not true.”

“—You’d break Sam’s heart.”

Dean violently shook his head. “Bobby, all I want is to go home and be with my brother again, okay? The Games are already taking this toll on me and I know that I’m trapped! It’s prison, Bobby! Even worse, it’s a gladiator fight! I’d rather I’d die breaking out, than be killed in there! I’d rather die with freedom _right in front of me_ than in there! I don’t want to die, I want to live so fucking badly because I need to get home because Dad can’t raise Sammy all on his own, as hard as he’ll try! He’s not built to be a father! No one taught him how to be one!”

“And you think you’re fit to be one?”

Dean sucked in a quick breath, a little shocked by the comment. Was he? Was he both a brother and a stand in-father?

He was the one who carried Sam out of their burning house, after all. Not Dad.

He was the one who made sure that Sam was still in school, learning and being a well educated kid.

Not Dad.

“Yes,” Dean croaked back. “Because I’d do everything I could to be a good one.”

Bobby sighed, took off his ball cap and wiped the sweat that began to form on his forehead. “You give me headaches sometimes, kid, you know that? First you let your stylist use you as a rebellion poster holder, then this? The Capitol’s gonna rip ya to shreds.”

At this point, Bobby even let out a muted chuckle. “I can’t even blame ya. I just don’t want you pulling this crap. They’ll catch you every time, Dean. And I’d be lying if I said I’m glad they did. I wish we could all escape this dump. And I wish those idjits in the Dark Days had just done shit right, then we wouldn’t have this damn problem.”

Dean gave a sad smile, and averted his eyes to the ground. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I wish we could all get out. This is sick, it’s twisted.”

They were quiet for the next minute, patiently passing the rolling time, until Dean spoke up yet again.

“Me and Sam were gonna buy that Impala, you know.” A weak piece of laughter. “We had a jar going, too, for savings. We’re almost there, so damn close. If only we had enough… we would have been long gone before this mess, Bobby. We would have been long gone.”

There was only more silence. Dean kept his head down, not wanting to meet Bobby’s eyes. So he kept going with his story.

“When we were saying goodbye, Sam was panicking. He even thought we’d have time to steal the car. Try and avoid coming here..."

And the memory came rushing back like a ghost, Sam’s words there but already the familiarity of Sam’s voice disappearing. Dean tried to cling to the memory, tried to hang onto it.

_I don’t want you to go, Dean. Please…_

“I’d die to go back home. But even if I don’t, it’s a lot better than the alternative."

“What’s that?”

Dean kept up the little upturn of his lips. “Watching Sam go through it.”

Then came yet more silence, a nonviolent quiet that resonated through both men.

“Dean. There’s no way of getting out of this situation,” Bobby mumbled. “There just isn’t. The Capitol will have it’s playtime, and the whole country just has to suck it up and endure it. The question isn’t if you’re willing to die. It’s if you’re willing to massacre everyone else, to get home. That’s how chess is one, last king standing wins. Are you willing to become an executioner?”

Dean didn’t respond. Didn't know how.

That’s the only way to win. That’s the only way to see Sammy again.

_I’m gonna win, Sammy. And I’m gonna cheat like a motherfucker to do it._

If only there was a way to cheat the system.

“Have a good training session today, Dean,” Bobby grumbled after a while, turning to exit, not waiting for Dean’s answer. Her probably already knew. “And keep your focus away from the guns. You have to work on your weak spots before you go showing your stuff off.”

And then he left.

And then Dean was left alone with nothing but dangerous thoughts to keep him company.

And Dean knew the answer, too.

He would walk through an _army_ , to get home to Sam. He would slaughter every single soldier, not caring where they came from, who they were, if they had families. Dean was a selfish bastard in that aspect. And he would know that as he ripped out the throats of child after child, all wanting the same thing.

To survive.

They all just wanted to survive.

But Dean wanted it more than anyone else, because of baby brother Sammy.

The truth was that Dean would become the monster from underneath the bed. The demon in the closet. The freak of nature in the forest that Sam would swear he could hear scratching at the window every night when he was little.

He would be an executioner.

Because that was the only way out.

***

He found the gym rather impressive on the first glance over. A wide space with different skill building stations scattered all across it. Of course, his attention was quickly caught by a nearby shooting range, with human shaped cutouts, and next to them, a wall stacked with rifles, pistols, every gun Dean could every want and ever imagine. He swallowed heavily and forced his glance away, Bobby’s voice echoing in his brain. _Weak points, weak points, focus on your weaker areas, get good at what you suck at._

There were tributes all over the gym. Some making fires, some shooting arrows. A girl who looked to be sixteen or seventeen, with curled brown hair was squinting heavily at a spear she was handcrafting, and a boy that looked younger than Sam was at the station that helped with disguise. His eyes were slanted and heavy from lack of sleep, and his dark hair hung in his face. Dean noticed that there was a hand to hand combat fighting ring, and that took hold of his interest. He would come back to that.

There was a fire building stage, which Dean spent a good hour and so focussing at. He managed quite well to start one, and even figured out how to not give away his position (build the fire with dry wood, under trees so the smoke disperses before reaching the air, building a tunnel for it, etc.)

Another range of some sort came into view, farther back into the gym after his hands were warm and a little charred. Dean limped towards it, drawn to it by the look of it’s abandonment, and saw the oddness in it.

Instead of bows or guns, there were three barrels filled with hatchets.

Unusual.

There was something incredibly enchanting about this scene. Axes as murder weapons. Dean had read enough novels to know that serial killers would chase their poor victims through the halls of abandoned houses with these babies in hand, leading up to a nice, intense gory scene. _Here’s Johnny,_ he thought, and gave a small laugh.

Something about this enchanted him. Maybe it was the Shining reference.

Something about this repelled him. Maybe it was also the Shining reference.

There was the lingering thought in the back of his head, kicking at a question, kicking, screaming:

_So is this your calling?_

_You’re the villain now?_

Dean gritted his teeth and reached into the closest barrel, grasping a wooden handle tightly in the palm of his already sweaty hand. It was surprisingly light, and his sore shoulders took an immediate liking to the feeling. He let it hang, the head towards the ground, as he stared down one of the targets.

_(all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play)_

Shaped like human bodies.

_They’re not alive, Dean._

_They’re not alive._

He hoisted the head up, gently grazing his thumb over the blade. A thin string of red was drawn, running down his wrist, but he paid no mind to it.

_(makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy)_

This was rather alien to him.

Playing the villain instead of the hero.

Not powerful, not dominating.

( _give me the bat wendy)_

But _exhilarating_.

_(come and play with us dean come play with us forever and ever and ever)_

Dean whipped it, head over tail, straight at the target,

_(theres someone screaming)_

and he watched it fly, an eagle stalking prey,

_(theres someone screaming and a child)_

beautiful, deadly,

_( **I**_ **_DONT WANT TO DIE!!!_ ** _)_

and nailed it dead in the face.

A quick breath from shock escaped him, and he blinked twice. There had been an image, the moment he had thrown the hatchet. There was a kid in front of him, a kid without a face, but definitely a child. They were crying. They were shaking in fear, hands over their head. Whether they were a boy or a girl, Dean did not know.

Oh, they were young.

Sam’s age. Maybe younger still.

_I don’t want to die._

It was a perfect shot. More than perfect. Dead accurate.

And the faceless child was still screaming.

_(you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain)_

_(redrum)_

Still crying.

As if to contrast it, Dean heard someone laughing from behind him.

“Sam,” came the faint word, the first word that came to his mind. And for a split second he was convinced that’s who he’d see standing there. For a split second he saw Sammy’s snarky smile, and he saw his mouth say well it looks like you can actually aim! and Dean would give a shit eating grin back, and would ask Sam if he could do better, and that’s what they’d do for the rest of the day. They would play together, challenge one another until after the sun went down, just like always.

But Sam wasn’t there.

Dean couldn’t help but feel his heart sink. Of course he was disappointed. When you miss someone, you’re dying for their presence. You see things that aren’t there.

Dean didn’t want Sam there, though. He didn’t want his baby brother Sammy in this city, in this gym, training to fight for his life and not taking down deer in the woods behind the electric fence.

Dean didn’t want Sam to be here. He wanted to jump on the next train and get his ass home.

But that wasn’t happening.

But there had been laughter. Short, quick and childish, as if the one who was laughing didn’t mean to, just had it slip out by accident. But of course when Dean looked around, there wasn’t anybody within a ten foot radius.

Maybe it was just a silly act of the imagination.

Maybe.

He took hold of another axe, and threw it, this time striking his target’s chest, and he did a silent fist pump in celebration, and just as he went to throw another, there was a voice behind him, a voice that was all too real, and he knew it wasn’t Sam. But he did know the face that matched it.

“Your technique is weak.”

Dean turned his neck and glanced over his shoulder, immediately regretting it as his neck gave a little cry of soreness. His hand rushed up to tend to it, rubbing it. To Castiel, it looked like he was swatting a fly that had landed there, and he thought it looked rather ridiculous. And perhaps somewhat funny. He didn’t mention anything about it, but instead said, “So I guess they got you pretty hard, huh?”

Dean nodded, groaning a bit. “They beat me into the ground,” he muttered. He grabbed another hatchet and it hung loosely by his thigh, swinging slightly. Although Dean had his eyes on Cas, Cas had let his violent blues gazed at the axe. As if romanced. Or deeply intimidated, watching it sway back and forth. Dean gave him a quick run down, looking first at his dark, drunk hair (an absolute mess), then to the strong line of his jaw. The way his training outfit clung to his skin almost seemed unfitting, considering of what Dean knew of Castiel. Someone who talked so smoothly and hunted in fields and who was an excellent marksmen shouldn’t be constrained.

“You look tired,” Dean commented. Not to be rude, but because of the black rings under Cas’ eyes, “Get enough sleep last night?”

Cas scoffed back. “I think we both know that I got barely any, considering the stunt you pulled.”

And then Dean wondered if Cas was like him.

Cas added, “I got a few hours. A dream woke me up. And a couple of other things.”

A bird in a trap.

A rat in a cage.

But then again, why would any bird who was ensnared in such a deadly prison resist the desire to fly?

Why wouldn’t he want to get out?

“I think my technique’s just fine,” Dean observed, hurling the axe towards the target, landing a hit in the torso. Out of the corner of his eye he swore he saw Cas flinch.

But why?

Why would Castiel Novak, of all people…

But Cas shook his head. “It’s good for your aim, but you’ll destroy your shoulder if you keep doing that…” He reached into the barrel himself, and with extreme swiftness, tossed his own axe. A sickening sound of wood being splintered cracked the air, and when Dean looked back at the target, he saw Cas had nicked his own hatchet logged in the targets brain. Not exactly Robin Hood fashioned, but dead close. The floor below it had multiple fragments of the handle scattered across it.

Dean whistled for effect. “Well, angel face—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Dean shrugged, ignoring the suddenness of annoyance in Cas’ tone. “Too late. But it looks like you know what you’re doing.” He turned and made eye contact, locking green onto blue, and Cas squinted at him, more like an angry kitten than intimidating. Dean just raised his eyebrows at him.

“You should teach me, ya know. After all, I almost saved your life last night.”

Cas went silent. Broke eye contact, apparently something was on the floor of greater interest. For a second he looked back up, mouth opened, like he wanted to ask something, but when he couldn’t mutter the words out, he shut it, and just stared at Dean.

Almost with those blue eyes pleading.

Almost with eyes _begging_ , crying out _help me with this. I’m just as scared as you are, I’m just trying not to show it._

And in another second, replaced by that curious squint.

And for that moment, Dean convinced himself that it was merely imagination.

“Why didn’t you come with me, Castiel?”

This question he asked in a soft whisper, and for good reason, too. There were bound to be microphones littering the gym, the Capitol listening on every word they said, every twitch of the lips. Another tribute could be close enough to eavesdrop, it was hard to know and impossible to be too careful.

Soft enough for only Cas’ ears.

Cas just gave him a look. Shook his head again, hesitantly. “Not here…” he shushed back, “Later.” And he held out a hand. Dean stared at it, and Cas gave a small sigh.

“It was nice talking to you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean eyed it, suspiciously. This was getting weird. Much too weird. Castiel’s behaviour was much different today from last night, and from when Dean first met him. When they first spoke, he was definitely shy, but relaxed. Even when Dean had snuck up on him through his window, he had been somewhat relaxed. Now, his whole body was tensed up, as if anticipating a blow that he would have to duck from.

Like he was planning something.

Hesitantly, he shook Cas’ hand, firmly, and felt a familiar scratching on his palm as a tiny scrap of paper was passed from one hand to another. At this point, the faceless child that had been haunting Dean five minutes ago had been completely forgotten.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, “You too.”

Cas pulled his hand away, and a secret exchange was made, and Cas gave a small smile. “Have a good day.”

He began walking away, casually, as if he didn’t just plant the first explosion of many to come. As if he hadn’t just put a very dangerous idea into place.

As if he just hadn’t involved Dean Winchester in it.

“Heard you laughing at me.”

Cas stopped in his tracks, and turned around, a confused expression on his face. “What’re you talking about?”

“You know,” Dean went on, “Before. When I was practicing, I heard you laugh at me for some reason. I’ll have you know I’m not that funny.”

But Cas just gave that squint again. And that worried Dean.

“I wasn’t laughing at you.”

Cas went and walked onto another station, not looking back again, and they wouldn’t meet again for hours, wouldn’t talk again for a few more hours.

So. If it wasn't Cas laughing at Dean, watching him from somewhere... Then who was?

Who would be interested in watching _him_?

Dean did yell out this:

“You still need to help me with that technique.”

And he wouldn’t see it, and Cas wouldn’t show it, but he smiled. It was a real smile. Not a nervous one, not a fake one to get his plan into motion.

A real smile. A good one.

The best a caged bird could give.

Choosing Dean Winchester to share this idea with had been the right choice after all. Or at least, so he hoped. And he would be right. He would be very right, even in the days leading up to his own destruction, Castiel believed that Dean was an answer.

Dean was his miracle.

And Dean looked at the paper, an eyebrow cocked, and he ripped it up, remembering the six words, grinning.

The world was going to get either very dark, or very interesting.

_01:15, Check under your bed. C. N._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the Shining references. I happen to love that book and movie a little too much.
> 
> Thank you for bearing with me and the time, and I'm sorry that this chapter isn't of particular interest (however, maybe some foreshadowing. Maybe...) But we are getting to the point where Dean and Cas are becoming allies, the next chapter will show us that at 1:15 in the morning.
> 
> Thank you all for the reads and the kudos and comments! I cannot tell you how much I love that you guys love this story. I also love this story, it's sort of consuming my life right now.
> 
> The next chapter will be more interesting, more detailed and I'm hoping a lot slower. I'm sorry if it takes me another month.
> 
> Thank you so much, and I'll be here writing the next part!
> 
> \--Marina


	10. Chapter 10

**01:15**

Cas sat cross legged on his bed, his eyes feeling heavy with the nightfall, but his heart beat was in triplets, his head was swirling, and had no intention of going to sleep any time soon.

He forced himself to breathe, focussed on the way the air entered his lungs and then took off once again, and he imagined that every time he exhaled, a cloud of butterflies came from his mouth. He smiled as he imagined them all in vibrant colours, with pinks and purples and greens and blues. For some reason, it was a very smoothing technique, and the more he imagined that every time he breathed he released life, the easier breathing became.

Castiel loved butterflies. Very few people know that. Gabriel did for sure, and was always the one to tease little Cassie about it when he went wandering off, chasing the poor thing down and trying to gently catch it in his hands, and to stare at it wide eyed and gaping. It was always a cute sight.

Gabriel, however, was also fascinated with butterflies, and would admire the ones Cas caught, before they released them back into the skies again. He never said he did, but Cas knew that look on his older brother’s face, and knew admiration. Even before his father took off, Gabriel had been the one to look after Cas, had the closest bond. The older brothers, like Lucy or Michael, usually had their noses buried five feet deep in one of their dads’ books, trying to learn the deepest philosophies and to outsmart one another. Maybe they would try and impress their dad. And Castiel just didn’t care, to busy occupied with the loveliness of nature, and never ending sunlight.

What he would do to be five years old again, chasing butterflies.

Chasing butterflies, and drawing pictures of Mommy in wax crayons.

Not stuck in this mess.

The Book was in his lap again, and he flipped through it, almost impatiently, occasionally giving a glance to the clock.

01:07.

He sighed. This waiting was making him paranoid. Overthinking and an over active imagination will do that, just thinking and listing off all the possible things that could potentially go wrong, in constant worry. What if Dean had misinterpreted the note? Pretty hard to do, since Cas thought he made the message clear, but still something that could easily happen. Or what if he didn’t want to come? What if he thought that Cas was luring him into a trap and would try to hurt him? Kill him?

_…Or what if Dean tries to kill me?_

Cas shook the thought off. “No, don’t think that way,” he muttered to himself, “Have faith, have faith.”

_Have faith._

That’s what the Book told him. There was verse upon verse about it _(“…if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, “Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” —Matthew 17:20)_ , and of course they added some hope, some reassurance. But fear is an impending force that is sometimes a great difficulty to fight off, and fear will always cause doubts, even with the amount of conviction in scripture.

So, he did what any good Christian would do, in times of distress, in times of trouble.

_(when i find myself in times of trouble mother mary comes to me speaking words of wisdom)_

He folded his hands together, pressing them to his forehead, and he gave quiet prayer.

_Dear Father. I call on you and ask you for a simple favour. I ask you to keep my nerves calm, my heart at peace for it is beating fast and I’m scared I might die from a heart attack in my anxiety._

If God could laugh, Castiel was pretty sure He would laugh at that last line. Because Cas certainly did.

 _But please, Lord, give me strength. It is something I lack tonight, and I think I need some. I have a plan, God. I have a plan, and Dean Winchester is a man who can help me. I pray that you don’t let him abandon me on this thought, on this feeling. I believe I’m right in this, and I want to save my soul. Save_ his _soul._

He paused. A scene of Dean riding the chariot in the previous days’ parade came into his mind, with his fresh scars screaming, loud and painfully and extravagant and dangerous.

_I don’t want to die. I don’t want him to die, either. God, he has words engraved into his skin defying this twisted game that the Capitol enforced twenty-five years ago. He has rebellious eyes that I can see are righteous, eyes that burn bright with justice and peace and love and all things good. He is beautiful, absolutely beautiful in all of your works._

_A miracle child._

Ah, yes. Although Castiel wouldn’t know it, this would be the first out of many times he would refer to Dean as a miracle.

Because, truly, that is what Dean Winchester is.

A miracle.

_We both want to go home._

_(let it be)_

 

_Let us go home._

And before Cas could even mutter a hint of ahem and cross himself, there came a sound of rapping knuckles against glass, and his eyes flew open.

It was almost like experiencing deja vu, the way Dean hung upside-down suspended in mid air, green eyes blazing in the dark and his face red from the blood rush. He knocked twice more, then waved.

The comment made about someone named “Spiderman” came back to him, and still Castiel did not get the reference. He made a mental note about it to ask later, because now curiosity about that small subject was rising in a peculiar way.

Cas closed the Book, relief swelling over him. God had heard his prayer. _Thank you_ , he would send, rejoicing with a thousand voices and a thousand praises, _thank you thank you thank you._

He went to open the window, a cool breeze meeting his hair, and Dean gave a cocky smile, the smile he always gave that in a way scared Cas. But he let it go tonight. It wasn’t terrifying tonight. “Hey, angel face.”

And Cas couldn’t even be mad at that, either. “You came,” he said in an excited hushed whisper.

“Well of course I did,” answered Dean, flipping himself upright and entering Cas’ room, feet landing softly on the carpet. He wasn’t wearing shoes, just white socks with a faint trace of dust lined on the bottom, “You got the rope under my bed, gave me an invitation, how could I not? And good thing you put this thing back,” he chuckled, untying his makeshift harness and piled the remaining rope on the floor, “How’d you manage that, anyways?”

Cas bit his lower lip. “After you jumped the fence, it was left hanging there. Out in the open. I knew that if anyone saw it, especially the Peacekeepers, you’d be in even more trouble if you were captured. So, I reeled it in.”

“How’d it get back in my room?”

Cas gave a sly smile. “Dean, my brother is a past victor, and everybody loves me. How do you think famous people get away with illegal and antigovernment actions?”

Dean stared at him for a few seconds, absolutely in awe, then broke into a full blown laughter, and had to stuff a fist in his mouth to keep himself quiet in the sleeping tower. “Castiel Novak, you are a brilliant bastard.”

Cas just shrugged. “I do my best.”

His eyes fluttered up and were greeted by Dean’s, and for a good moment, they held eye contact. Even in the room’s awful lighting, he could see the way Dean’s eyes flash d their bold green, like a lighthouse at sea. Castiel’s heart jumped up into his throat suddenly, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep it in his chest.

_(its not love just lust)_

Of course Castiel didn’t love Dean. That’s ridiculous.

But there was something. Definitely something. And it was dangerous, and it was demonic, and it made itself known.

Unpredictable.

“So,” Dean interrupted the tranquility, still flashing that smile of his. “What’s up? You couldn’t have just called me down here for nothing, now.”

Cas took in a deep breath. This was it, and already his nerves were swarming, and his brain was telling him to stop, that he couldn’t trust Dean, but there was no going back at this point.

 _Now or never. Never or now,_ as Gabriel would sometimes say.

“I have an idea. A plot, actually. I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”

Dean frowned, and it looked like the circuits and clockwork in his brain had started to run and function faster. A look of thinking. Maybe he thought that Cas was insane already, and he could feel his chest seize up. “Join in what?”

_Don’t let Dean Winchester abandon me on this, God._

_I need someone on my side..._

Cas breathed again. Inhale, exhale, a wave of colourful butterflies. “Dean, a little over twenty-four hours ago you made an escape attempt in order to flee the Capitol. And by fleeing the Capitol, you ultimately escape the Games. And that got me thinking—”

“Yeah, but they caught up to me,” Dean threw in, “I set off the alarms in every direction. Cas, if your idea is to copy last nights go at this, then there’s no point. They posted two guards outside my door because they thought I left through the front doors. They’ve got a few eyes on me.”

“I know,” said Cas. He took a seat on the edge of his bed, and Dean leaned up against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed in a white shirt and a pair of baggy grey sweats, perfectly attractive on him.

Castiel wiped the thought from his head.

_(its not love just lust)_

“But the idea of an escape plan,” he continued, his lips suddenly dry, “That’s what kept me up. You sparked something, Dean, and now there’s a fire going. And not only did you try and escape, something that’s never been done before, but now you bear scars on your back that you _willingly_ allowed your stylist to inflict on you, to get a message across this country. A message that said that you wouldn’t be so easy as to bend to the Capitol’s rules. That you are more than just a pawn in their game. And that made me wonder why most of us don’t do the same thing, and I thought: _Well, isn’t there still time for that?”_

A grand smile had worked it’s way on Castiel, and Dean didn’t know what to make of it. It almost seemed like there was a crazy gleam in his eye, but at the same time, something very passionate was winding it’s way through. Words that were demanding of attention, that wouldn’t go unnoticed, that were an undeniable comet in utter darkness.

Dean wanted to listen.

“Go on.”

“What if we did escape,” Cas suggested, his voice low, “What if we were able to get out?”

“But we can’t. They’d get us to quick, they’re on red alert from every direction and would hunt us down within minutes—”

“Not from here, Dean,” Cas interjected, “From the arena.”

And the bomb was dropped, and the nuclear blast brought chaos all onto this world. Onto their world.

Now _that_ caused something that neither of them expected.

It was as if a million bolts of lightening had struck them, as if time had stopped dead in it’s tracks. An impossible idea had been muttered and the Universe took a hold of it, and Dean Winchester found his arms falling to his sides and his eyes widen at the absolute madness of Castiel’s idea, of Castiel’s absurd plan.

“That’s impossible,” he whispered.

Cas leaned foreword, that excited light growing brighter. “ _Nearly_. Nearly impossible. That’s what the Capitol wants us to think. That’s there’s no way out, but there is, Dean. There is. There’s proof.”

“Okay,” Dean slowly nodded his head, taking all the vague information in, “What’s the proof?”

“Neither of us would remember it, we weren’t born yet,” Cas began, hands fidgeting and twisting around one another, fingers fighting in a frenzy, “But twenty-three years ago, in the second Hunger Games, there was someone who found a loophole in the arena.”

He took a breath, then went on, his lungs weighed down by the amount of talking he was doing when his body was already exhausted.

“It was a snowy forest setting, freezing cold, snow coming down everyday, and at about nine-thirty on the fourth night, when there were ten tributes left, they fired her cannon. The entire world was convinced that she froze to death, Dean, but that’s not what happened to her. She got out.”

“How?” Dean asked, now intrigued, “How is that even possible?”

“The records say that she spent all her time walking. To where, nobody knew, but she managed to avoid being killed her entire time there by burying herself in hand made snow caves. She was a genius at disguise, spent just about all her time training perfecting it. Everyday she would just walk through the woods, until she came to the end of the arena. But the reports go on to show that she just kept going, following the dome wall. And then she stumbled on a door.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “What kind of door?”

“A trapdoor,” Cas replied, “Hidden in one of the trees. Very difficult to see, to spot out, but this tree was different from all the others in the arena’s forest. Entirely different species, in fact. So, she checked it out. And she left.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Dean looked absolutely awed, too stunned for words. His arms had refolded, fingers on his right hand dancing on his left bicep.

Thinking.

“Cas, where’d you get this information?”

At this, Cas hesitated, and his shoulders became tense.

_(a little girl grasped at a book high up on the self almost jumping to reach it)_

_(brown hair small smile big laugh)_

Dean saw it flash on Castiel’s face, the sudden vulnerability, and he wondered if he accidentally triggered something. “I’m sorry—” he began, but Cas cut him off.

“No, no, it’s fine. It really is. Just… brought up an old memory, that’s all.”

He rubbed at his eyes momentarily, before looking back up at Dean, grinning once again.

“When I was fourteen I was doing some snooping around in my father’s old den. He kept hundreds of books in there, and all they were doing was gathering dust. So I went through some of them, and it turns out he’s been keeping track of the Games since they started. So I read up on some of them.” He frowned, “And then, I forgot that he even had them at all. Until yesterday. It all came back, and that’s how this idea was formed.”

He sighed, a gentle grin playing a beautiful song now. He reached over to the nightstand and put on his glasses, the strain of seeing suddenly smeared away, a clean window. He took a few seconds to adjust.

“In my father’s office, he kept a lot of documents, a lot of records. I have no idea how he got a hold of them, most things would have been burned by the Capitol years ago. But he has books. Tons on what Panem was before the Dark Days. It was a whole other world. An entirely different world…”

He gave an almost sad laugh just thinking about it. The millions of times that he had wondered in there after Father had left, searching for clues or things that could give hints to where he might’ve gone to, even when he had been gone for what seemed like forever. And he would run through the pages as if he were running over the flat surface of the earth.

“Oh, Dean, it was wonderful…” he whispered, his voice drifting off as if he were lost in some sort of dream of his own, “So many places I want to go, so many magnificent and delightful places…”

_… That might just… not exist anymore._

Dean was interested, and he gave a chuckle. “Like where? Where do you wanna fly off to, angel?”

Cas laughed, running fingers through his hair, soothing the roughness of it out. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this.”

“Well, dreams are big things to talk about,” Dean retorted, and took a seat on the floor, with one knee close to his chest and the other stretched out in front of him. He leaned his back against the wall, “C’mon. Enlighten me.”

So, Cas gave in.

And if there was something that Cas loved more than his God and more than his stories, was telling stories.

“Well,” he started, heart fluttering inside his body, trying to force its way out, “Way before the creation of Panem, this whole country was known as North America, and it was split onto three other countries: Canada, at the top, Mexico at the bottom, and a wacky freedom fighter place known as the United States of America sat between them.

“Now, on the other side of the world, was a place they called East Asia. Filled to the brim with the oldest cultures in the world and unique languages. Truly grand… And there’s this island country, called Japan… Oh, god, I would give my soul to visit Japan…”

His thoughts trailed off into a quiet stream that left Dean wondering, and Cas seemed to read his mind.

“I think it’s still there,” he answered, without intending to, “I don’t have any resent geography books since the book burnings in District 1, the most recent I have is about fifty years pre-Rebellion. But I believe it’s still standing… Unlike here…”

Cas couldn’t help but laugh again. This whole scene was rather a ridiculous sight. Here he was, sharing hopes and ambitions with none other than rebel Dean Winchester, when they were supposed to be mortal enemies, willing to snap each other’s necks.

But here they were.

Meeting on how to make it out of the bird cage alive.

Sharing motivation.

“This place went to the dogs. And here I am, just a wistful wanderer, a hoper of impossible hopes.”

Dean thought on this again, before finally saying, “Wow.”

Cas nodded back at him. “Yeah. Wow.”

“Not all who wander are lost, you know.”

Cas smiled at him. “That’s a very nice quote. I like it.”

“Some dead writer said it,” Dean countered, “Not me.”

They both gave a small laugh, and Castiel found himself twisting and weaving with his fingers again, not know what to say. Fiddling, not sure what should be of their conversation next.

“… So, what makes you want to fight?” he inquired, hoping that maybe his voice could take a rest, and maybe to know something about the man with the eyes like heaven, the man on the other side of the room.

Dean looked up at him, seeming a bit dumb folded.

“What makes you hate the Capitol so bad that you are willing to have knives driving into your back to make a point?” Castiel asked, soft, voice low, gentle.

Dean waited a long time before responded, as if pondering if he was able to find the right wording, the right way to get it all off and have it be a good story.

But instead, he just beamed, and said, “No comment,” and stood back up to lean against the window, where the lighting of the moon and the city lights gave him a very heavenly glow.

And Cas accepted that, as an answer. He couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed, having wanted to know Dean’s side of the story after he had spilled the entirety of his, but he respected it. He was a tribute in the goddamn Hunger Games, after all. Keeping memories close was sometimes all you got.

To keep from lingering on the subject, Dean quickly changed it. “So when you didn’t come with me last night—”

“It wasn’t because I already had this plan in place,” Cas responded, honestly, “I didn’t even know I would think of this plan until after they caught a hold of you, and started… started hitting you. And I don't know why I didn't just take your hand and go with you, and... I was just--"

“Just what?” Dean took a step foreword off the wall, and Cas’ pulse quickened, but Dean didn’t come any closer than that.

Cas sighed. “Falling,” Cas muttered, “I was scared of falling. And running off somewhere with you, I guess.”

He expected Dean to laugh, but Dean just gave a kind smile.

“Running off with a strange boy who you’ve only met just that morning is kinda weird, isn’t it?” he commented. They both chuckled.

“And, I suppose,” Cas added, “I was wondering, out of all people, why you’d want to ask me.”

This question seemed to startle Dean. He cocked his head to one side, and wore a slightly defensive expression.

And Cas couldn’t help but think for a second that maybe Dean’s heart rate sped up when he saw him, too, and maybe Dean was in the same position he was, where it wasn’t love but just lust and he had to decide. He couldn’t help but think that, and then immediately repelled it, because

1) Castiel didn’t like Dean Winchester. He _liked_ him, and that was a lot different. But nothing father than that.

2) There was no way that such a beautiful person could fall in love with someone as insignificant as Castiel Novak. Especially when this man was ultimately God’s favourite. Such a righteous human being, perhaps with flaws, like most things in this world, but with an incredibly saving grace.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yeah?”

“What if the Game Makers removed the trapdoor after that? Wouldn’t they think someone else would get the same idea and just walk out?” 

“That’s just the thing,” Cas said, “It’s still there. I’ve went over so many tapes when I was younger, especially when Lucifer went into his Games, and every time I’ve noticed it, faintly in the background. There’s always something different and it’s always in a new place. The only thing I know about it is that it’s at the edge of the arena somewhere, and that it leads out. Sometimes guarded by… _things_. Sometimes not. But it’s always there, Dean. It’s got the same shaped handle every year.”

Dean tilted his head back, and made a huh sound, that in a way was very attractive and was very distracting to Cas, and he hated himself for it.

“Why should I trust you on this again?”

“Because.” He looked up. “I obviously trust you.”

And the smile Dean gave then and there had made Cas’ heart decide something.

It’s not love. Just lust.

But there was something. A strange boy with hellfire green eyes, with freckles scattered across a perfect galaxy. A boy with sandy blond hair with the most terrifying smile was going to escape Hell with him.

Hopefully.

Of course humans can’t predict Doomsday. Doomsday just happens.

And these are the events that caused the apocalypse.

“So,” Dean started, “I guess that makes us allies.”

Castiel nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

Dean held out a hand. “Partners in crime.”

Cas took it, shook it, feeling the rough pads of Dean’s fingers on his wrist. “Partners in crime,” he repeated, “And in rebellion.”

Cas stole a glance at the clock, and realized that the time had gone past two o’clock. “You should get going,” he stated, “More training tomorrow.”

“I don’t know. I’m kinda enjoying this antigovernment session,” Dean replied, giving a wink, but after some convincing, Dean agreed to go back to his room. The sun was close to rising.

But as he walked past Cas’ bed, something caught his glance.

“What’s this?” he asked, rather innocently, and picked up the Book from the bed’s smooth covers.

Instantly, Castiel started to panic a little bit. _Oh, please don’t look at that, please don’t, don’t look Dean don’t look—_

“A light read,” Cas practically stuttered out, but when Dean went flipping through the pages, Cas felt his cheeks flush red and he focused on the piece of carpet framed by his feet, hands sweating on his knees, and they began to fight with each other even more.

“Cas, if you pass me off as a man who can’t read, I beg to differ,” Dean stated, concentrating on the Book, having selected a page and was now scanning it, like an editor looking for errors in the writers’ work. “This is not a light read. The prints too fine… No wonder you need glasses…”

He pivoted back to Cas and gave him that _I’m-not-gonna-judge-you-for-what-you-read_ type of expression, and Castiel knew he was cornered.

Cas gave a heavy sigh, defeated. “It’s a story. Well, actually, it’s not just a story, it was at one point a religion on this earth, but with a lot of things, people dropped it, and it just… turned to dust, one day. People just thought believing wasn’t doing them any good.”

“Well, what’s it about?”

“It’s about a God,” Cas said, “A God who made this world to be perfect. And then it got screwed up. He got angry, killed thousands of people in this rage, because He couldn’t understand why people wouldn’t listen. But then, after a while, He pitied this creation that He had borne… Told Himself that we were just children, and children are bound to make mistakes in their short life-time. So, to save them, this God sent His one and only son, to teach them the good things, to help them learn.

“And this son died… And showed the world what redemption looked like.”

An incredible silence followed, where neither of them said anything.

Just looked at one another with astonishing grace.

“The end,” Castiel added, as if the punchline to the joke, but the way Dean kept staring at him let him know that there was no joke. There was no punchline needed, because this wasn’t a punchline at all.

Just another good story.

And, if anything, all humans appreciate a good story.

And that was another reason why Dean Winchester, in Castiel’s eyes, was absolutely beautiful.

***

Much sooner than I think either of them would have liked, Dean thought that it was a good time to make an exit (long past 2 am by now), and instead by exiting by rope, he left through the front door, and Cas was so caught up in the moment that he didn’t even notice.

Before Dean closed the door, Cas had yet another thing on his mind that seemingly just couldn’t wait until tomorrow, that couldn’t wait a second longer, and spat out, “You play the piano beautifully… I was going to tell you when you were playing. But I got nervous, and you…”

“I was another tribute,” Dean finished. “Are you telling me that you didn’t know that I was 12’s tribute when we talked before the parade?”

Cas paused, then sighed. “I thought you were a stable boy.”

Dean gave a cocky smirk. “Oh, really?” Then he leaned closer. “Was I a cute stable boy?”

“Get outta here.” Dean laughed quietly, sighing contently. “Well, thank you. I haven’t played piano in years… I’m surprised I still know anything. And that I’m still _good_.”

He looked lost in blissful past, Castiel thought. And he wondered who Dean had back home. He wondered if there was a girl. He wondered if there was family, biting their nails, anxiously waiting. Wanting him home. He wondered about the coal mine Dean said he worked at. He wondered if he liked his job there. He wondered why it’s been years since Dean’s sat down at a piano.

Castiel wondered a million things about this boy. He wondered where Dean learned to sing, wondered why he was always smiling.

He wondered if he would be lucky enough to know all of Dean’s story.

Dean Winchester was a mystery that lured Castiel in, and he couldn’t help but love it.

Not love, of course. Just lust.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Cas.” Dean winked at him, and Cas felt his heart find it’s home in his throat.

“See you, Dean.” And when Cas removed his glasses and set them on the bedside table once again, he knew for a fact that there was simply something there.

And now, with the threat of perhaps murdering that boy sentenced to oblivion, he didn’t mind it.

***

Dean rode the elevator up, still smirking to himself. It had been a very interesting night, much better than the last in this place. Even his bruises and little jerks of pain seemed to be at ease.

On a scale from one to ten, he hated the Capitol at an eleven. It hadn’t changed since the day Ellen asked him. And the number would rise everyday, his hatred like an active volcano, threatening explosion.

And now, Castiel had let him in on a great secret, a dangerous and flawed plan, but it was indeed a plan. Dean didn’t want to kill anybody. Neither did Cas. Dean wanted out of the Games. So did Cas.

Crazy coincidence.

And there was something about this Castiel that was completely wonderful, Dean found. The excitement in his words, in trying to convince Dean that this plan was actually possible. It was real conviction.

And the way his hair was all messy, and they way his blue eyes danced.

Cas was special, somehow. Smart, risky.

But.

_(his brother killed benny)_

There was a bad feeling rising, and he tried to suppress it,

_(benny is dead because of that boys brother)_

tried to get rid of it, because Cas wasn’t a bad person.

He wasn’t a bad person today. Wasn’t a bad person yesterday.

He was just a poor broken bird. An angel, Dean had noted several times. Boy, was he ever an angel with those extraordinary blue eyes… A guardian angel. He had to be. He was Dean’s way home, back to 12, back to Sam.

As the elevator _dinged_ with every story passed, Dean felt his heart swell with something he never thought he would get the taste for ever again.

Hope.

A powerful thing, hope was.

_Hear that, Sammy. I’m coming home._

_I’m coming home._

He reached the thirteenth floor, gave a huge sigh, and walked down the hall, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. It was a good night. First good night in a few. And now, where his mind may have been begging him to sleep, he know wanted to stay awake, and listen to all the knowledge Cas had come across.

 _Japan_.

That sounded absolutely wonderful…

He reached his room, where, like he had stated before, stood two guards on either side of his door, fully dressed in the white Peacekeeper outfit, guns in their hands, and Dean shivered at the sight of them.

He missed Garth. Missed the Peacekeepers back home, who actually cared about justice. Not these dogs.

Dean reached for the door handle, ignoring the stunned looks on the guards faces, mouths gaping open. Dean turned to one of them and gave a snarky beam. “What’re you gonna do about it?” he asked sarcastically, “Lock me out?”

Then he went inside, landed on his bed, and went to sleep, dreaming about Castiel his angel, and about Sammy.

Baby brother Sammy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laughs* Oh look, they're falling in love...
> 
> I'm so happy that I could get this chapter up in under a week, to make up for the long wait on the last one. It does get even more exciting from here, let me tell you. It's all about how Cas and Dean get to know each other even more and soon Cas learns about why Dean's there. 
> 
> And maybe something about the little girl with brown hair, big eyes, and a big laugh.
> 
> Here comes the past...
> 
> \--Marina


	11. Chapter 11

**Prologue to Falling in Love**

I think this was one of the days that they wondered if they had fallen in love.

The last few had definitely been asking the question on Dean and Cas both, nudging and joking, seeing if it could weasel an answer from out of their mouths as the pink rushes into their cheeks. But there wouldn’t be an answer, not for a little while, anyways. Partly because of the ignorance they both tried to play off one another, pretend that what they were feeling didn’t exist. Like Castiel would remind himself countless times, _it’s not love, it’s just lust_. But you can only ignore the obvious for so long. Reality is a deadly wave in the hurricane, and sooner or later, you just can’t deny it anymore.

They wouldn’t know themselves until they realized that their hearts stop beating for each other, and they find it hard to breathe. When their fingers interlock, when they kiss for the first time. When the whole of the universe refuses to turn because a storm was rising in their chests that couldn’t be stopped, not by anybody. Not by Crowley, not by the Capital, not by the Games, not anything.

Today wasn’t the day they fell in love. Not for certain. Today was the day that they made the decision to discontinue the lie that there was nothing there. That Dean was just imaging the way Cas looked at him. That Cas mistook Dean’s playfulness for flirting.

Idiots. Children who were forced to fight for their life couldn’t afford to make relationships, couldn’t afford to lose each other. It was a bad decision, would cost lives and blood would pour over their hands and stain.

But despite all of this, they definitely fell.

And they fell fast.

“Try aiming higher, just by five degrees.”

Dean huffed out a sigh, and closed his eyes briefly. His lungs felt as if they were about to explode. “Cas, you’ve been trying to perfect this for over an hour. I think I’ve got it down.”

“Well, then you’re just arrogant.”

“And you’re just picky.”

Dean could just feel Cas squinting at him, and couldn’t help but crack a smile. It was an oddly chilling feeling, having Cas stare through you, like he was looking to find your soul hidden behind your heart. It was something that Dean found himself rather enjoying, for whatever reason. Maybe it was the thin hairs on the back of his neck that stood up, the electrifying current that shocked his veins and sent his blood into a crashing wave. Maybe he just liked being looked at.

Cas clicked his tongue a few times, and Dean could just imagine his face in his hands, running a hand through his hair, slightly annoyed. “Give it another try,” Cas said, voice sounding weighted, “Humour me, Winchester.”

Dean gave a gentle laugh, and opened his eyes. He tilted his head back, looking up at the high ceilings bright lights, the glare causing dark spots to appear and dance in his vision. His neck ached, as well as his shoulders and back and torso. He wished he could say it was from when the Peacekeeper caught him on the run, but that event was now a good week in time behind them. Now, he was sore from Cas’ extremist training.

Everyday of training was mostly for Dean’s benefit, Cas over seeing his movements and correcting errors, turning Dean into a more efficient hunter. Cas was a Career, and of course that meant that he had trained his entire life for this point. Although he did some for himself, his focus remained on Dean.

Dean hadn’t snuck down to Cas’ room since the conception of the plan to escape the arena. He didn’t want to risk being caught and then getting Cas in trouble, too. Sneaking around at night would be saved for important matters.

Reluctantly, he reached into the barrel, grasping onto another axe handle. His throwing arm was getting heavier and heavier with each toss, the tendons and muscles starting their wearing down. Sweat drenched Dean, running off his brown and into his mouth, the salt collecting on his tongue and stinging his eyes. Not even the mines had him as exhausted as he was now, the way Cas worked him into professional level.

Sam would be laughing.

“When did you get so good at killing people with hatchets?” Dean asked, inclining his head to look at the other boy.

Cas shrugged his shoulders. “They taught us a lot in District 1,” he answered, as if it should be obvious. His tone wasn’t rude, though. A teachers’ manner. “Almost anything we had could be transformed into a weapon, if needed. Anything from a broken stick to a hatchet.” He motioned to Dean’s axe.

“They teach you that in school?” Dean smirked.

“Yes, actually. Mandatory that we take the course.”

_(mandatory that we become killers at a young age)_

The smirk walked off Dean's mouth.

What that must be like. Little kids, running around with knives in their hands, brandishing them. With bows slung across their backs, arrows cocked. Learning bloodlust alongside English and maths.

Dean wondered if they made their first kill outside the Games. If instead of receiving toys from Santa on Christmas morning they got machetes to play with?

Dean imagined a young Castiel Novak, with big blue eyes, standing at under five feet, shooting people through the hearts, the murder in that stare of his—

“Dean?”

Dean blinked twice, then turned back to Cas, where a small, concerned look resided.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked. His worry was obvious in Dean's silence.

 _It’s not like Cas can read minds,_ Dean thought. _It’s not like little kids decapitate people, or kill fresh out the womb. Cas wouldn’t do that. Cas is too… too religious. Too forgiving, too redeeming for all that._

But still. The idea bothered him.

“Yeah,” he said, a bit quiet. “Just dandy.” And as if to prove it, he smiled. For the moment, that seemed to be enough to convince Cas, and Dean grasped it to change the subject.

“So. We’ve spent a absolute shit ton of time working on this tech,” Dean straightened his back, his spine creaking. That was true. Over the past six days, Dean had managed to land the axe on the target with almost perfection, but Castiel was always left with an unsatisfied grimace on his mouth, as if he were stressing. He fixed Dean’s stance, Dean’s throw, the power behind Dean’s pitch, everything and anything that could be wrong. Cas fixed it all, little by little. And Dean worked his ass off to impress the son of a bitch, yet it never seemed good enough. Just always a little bit off. Always something that could be improved.

Dean chuckled lightly. “I think I’m pretty damn prepared with this. I think it’s time to give it up, man.” He dumped the hatchet back into the bucket with a heavy _thump_ , and then allowed for his hands to collapse onto his knees, legs weak and shaking from exhaustion now, lungs burning with a fierce fire that made it hard to breathe. “C’mon. Let’s work on something new today, before you polish me off by accident.”

Cas rolled his eyes, crossed his arms. “Still not perfect, Dean Winchester,” he muttered.

“You probably just like to see me sweat, don’t you?”

Castiel snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But there was a hint of a smile that left the words.

“Where to next?” he asked, tilting his head in that peculiar way again, “What else do you want to work on?”

Dean shrugged, not very certain. They’ve done a lot with the axes, the disguises, the fire making, the scavenging, quizzing one another on what was edible and what was poisonous. A lot could be done in a week’s time, especially with a determined Cas pushing him to his bare limits, a foot planted firmly beneath his shoulder blades until he ate the dirt.

Something Dean couldn’t help but take pleasure in.

But there was definitely one thing that they hadn’t touched, and Dean was itching to get his fingers on a trigger again.

“Ever shoot a gun before, Cas?”

This seemed to be the kind of question that stunned Cas, for he didn’t answer right away, rather pondered it, squinting at the ground. Pretty hesitant to reply, like maybe the answer was embarrassing.

“Wait,” Dean said, after all he was greeted by was tensed quiet, “Are you telling me that you’ve never fired a gun before? Really?”

“It’s pretty traditional in 1 that we don’t focus on them,” Cas murmured back, “Firearms rarely show up as an option in the Games, anyway. They’re too quick, too… modern of a weapon, I suppose. The teachers told us that guns were for Peacekeepers, not victors.”

“Wow,” Dean whistled, “They really had you brainwashed back there, didn’t they?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cas asked, his tone almost sounding hurt, and Dean realized by accident that he had struck a soft spot.

“I’ve been hunting with guns all my life,” he commented, “Ever since Mom died, my dad made sure that me and my baby brother could shoot straight and fight for ourselves. So in case if he got himself offed by a mountain lion or something out in the woods,

_(or poisoned himself with alcohol)_

his two kids wouldn’t starve.”

He let out a small burst of laughter.

Maybe Dad was good for some things.

There were plenty of times where John had gone to the bar and picked up some chick and didn’t come home for a week or two, so that lead to Dean and Sam taking the rifles out to catch some quail and on occasion, a deer that Sam could skillfully dismantle. They never went hungry because they were taught that that going hungry wasn’t an option.

Some of Dean’s best memories were out in the woods beyond that fence. When he was with Sam, and it was just the two brothers against the rest of the world. With big dreams of escaping, of aiming for a better life. Run away and try again.

What Dean would give to go back and do it all again. Even if that meant late night shouting matches with John. Even if that was hours and hours in the mines. Dean didn’t care. He missed Sam. Wherever Sam was, that was home.

And Dean missed home.

And he never thought that would be possible, because he always believed he would be home. Always.

“Would you teach me, then?”

Dean raised his head, once more not even realizing he was daydreaming.

“What?” “To shoot,” Cas repeated. “I want to learn, you seem like you could teach.”

“My old man was a teacher,” Dean said,

_(a dead beat)_

“not me.”

Cas smiled again, and his hands wound their way to sit on his hips, fingers tapping to an unheard beat at his side.

“Humour me, Dean Winchester.”

And of course, how could Dean say no to that? Those pleading blue eyes that reminded Dean of all the world’s skies, in the stage of the day right before the world faded into night, right before the stars made their entrance to dazzle the earth below them. A wonderful sort of blue.

So, the two wondered off to the gun range, and Dean looked longingly at the rack, a silly grin on his lips, excitement rising to his chest. Bobby had told him to stay away from the firearms, knowing his skill with them was something that was far from needing correcting and something that should be kept secret to use as a surprise element, but it was like ripping a writer from their paper, ripping a small part of them up and tossing it into the wind.

His fingers glided over some pistols, and then the rifles, and then finally finding a sawed off shotgun that his touch took pleasure in. He chuckled, and picked it up.

“Made one of these babies when I was twelve,” he stated, “Thought it was the coolest thing.”

 _Spent all night on it, too,_ he didn’t add, _hoped Dad would be proud of me that I learned so well. Came home drunk that night…_

He rested the gun on his shoulder, pretending to shoot it at the ground, making the childish sound effects (phew phew) under his breath, ignoring the confused glances he was getting from Castiel.

“Used to play Stormtrooper all the time, pretended like we were on the Death Star and on a mission to assassinate Darth Vader to save Princess Leia.”

“Dean, you do know that no one gets any of your references, right?”

“Ah, shut up, angel face,” Dean retorted. “You missed out, with all your book burnings and history wiping. Pre-Dark Days held all the fiction. All the magic.”

“There’s no such thing as magic, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean whispered, with a sad smile. “Not anymore.”

He loaded the gun, cocked it, and stood a good twenty or so feet from on of the human cut outs.

“Watch and learn,” he told Cas, an odd glint in his eye now, and his finger squeezed the trigger.

When the bullet went sailing through the target’s head, Dean pulled the trigger again, and struck the chest, his heart drumming a song that brought back every good moment he and Sam had back in those woods.

Just the two of them against the world.

And then he pulled that trigger a third time.

It was around this exact point that he remembered what they used to tell him when he was in middle school.

There once was this insane old man who would wander around 12’s town square, dazed all the time with a bottle in his hand. The students would say that he was on some kind of drug, too, LSD or some shit. Some said that they even got close enough to hear him talk to himself, absolute nonsense about the end of the world or the Dark Days or how he was the last survivor from District 13. Dean spotted him once, after one of his first shifts in the mines on his way home. All the old stories were true.

And that scared the hell out of Dean.

They’ve always told him that hearing voices was a bad sign.

When you hallucinate, that’s a bad sign. When things suddenly go from familiar to different, you should always see that as a bad sign, because different was always bad.

If you heard voices, then you were like that wasted man in the square, mumbling, wandering with nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Forever lost inside yourself and there is no escape hatch.

A goner.

But he heard that voice as he pulled that trigger for a third time, and it rang through his head like a bullet itself.

_I don’t want to die._

He recognized it. Subtle enough that he almost believed it wasn't there, but he heard it. He knew he heard it. Not as fearful as the last time, when he axed it in the face, but it was the same voice that screamed to him. A kid. A fucking kid, screaming and screaming until they couldn’t scream anymore because he killed them.

A faceless child.

Oh, they were young.

And for a second, or maybe it was a minute, he couldn’t breathe. A sudden drowning sensation came over him, flooding his lungs and flooding his head, choking him.

_Oh, god._

And then the faceless child took on an appearance. It grew hair, grew brown eyes and a goofy mouth and height and it became no longer an imaginary victim.

_(dont do this, bean.)_

Instead, it became Sam.

He didn’t even see Cas walk over to him from the corner of his eye, didn’t notice Cas repeating his name after the saw off hit the floor, Cas’ hand resting on his shoulder, giving a little shake. He was too busy fighting his way to the surface, getting sucked under by the current, drowning, drowning away.

_I didn’t mean to._

_I really didn’t mean to, Sammy._

Dean Winchester didn’t want to become a killer. Sam was back home, and Dean would rip through a whole fucking army before letting them stand between him and Sam. But there’s a difference in taking down a trained army, and destroying a _child_.

There’s a difference between being a survivor and a psychopath.

But he was doing this, all of this, for Sam. He volunteered for Sam, put his life out on open season and was prepared to kick ass and make his way back home to his baby brother, not wanting to leave him, not wanting to be alone. He would take lives for Sam, if he had to, if the world came to that.

And as he suffocated under the waves, Dean begged he wouldn't have to.

_(come and play with us dean come play with us forever and ever and ever—)_

“Dean.”

And just like that. The faceless child was gone again, and Dean broke the stillness of the water, and everything became… fine.

They’ve always told kids that seeing things, hearing things, was bad.

Different was always bad.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

He didn’t even realize how bad his voice was shaking, didn’t understand why this was shaking him up like this, like exhaustion, like fear and hope mixed in a bad whiskey.

There’s a lot of things that he just didn’t understand, couldn’t grasp onto for some reason.

Why him.

Why this.

He was an eighteen year old punk from 12. Worked in the coal mines, high school dropout so he could put little brother Sammy first, with an alcoholic father and a dead mother. He was a kid who wasn’t supposed to amount to anything in life, who could play the guitar and the piano and kiss a lot of girls. He was someone who loved fiction and ate up every word and every story that died with the rebellion, who wanted to escape the hell he lived in and be a free man. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Why him.

Why this.

Well, that’s obvious.

Of course it had to be him. Of course it had to be this.

Because of Sam.

_(im sorry bean)_

_No, don’t be sorry, Sammy. I’m coming home for you, I promise, I promise, I promise I’m coming back. I’ll come back home._

“Maybe I could learn another time. We still got a while before they judge us on anything.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Dean replied.

“You okay?”

Now, that was definitely a good question. And Dean had the answer to it.

But he rewrote the script anyways, and told a lie, and made the screen play.

“Never been better.”

***

Cas never really got the handle of making fires. Every now and then, a tiny flame would catch, then starve from lack of oxygen and die out, leaving a frustrated boy grinding his teeth.

“It takes a while, don’t worry,” Dean would reassure him, but Cas would just shake his head.

“I could kill a man with over two hundred different ways, Dean, but without fire, without heat, I’m going to die out there,” he grumbled, rolling a stick between his palms into a log, the friction making his hands burn.

“Well, I’m not gonna let you die, man,” Dean said back, taking the stick from Cas before he accidentally split his hand open. “Not in rain, snow or shine. I need you to break bad and bust me out."

He picked up two rocks with one hand and added more dry hay and grass onto the log with the other. “The trick is your kindling,” he instructed, knocking the rough stones together in a worn out rhythm, “and feeding the flame.” Soon enough, the sparks caught on, and Dean gently blew on the baby fire. Quickly, it consumed his small amounts of kindle, and he gave it more for it’s stomach until it was big enough to engulf full logs. Dean dusted his hands, proud of his work. Cas just sighed.

“What if we get separated? We can’t… ‘break bad,’ as you say, if one of us gets killed.”

“We’re not, Cas,” Dean heartened. “They can’t split Team Free Will so easily. Gotta give us some credit, ya know.”

Cas blinked a few times, deeply confused by Dean’s choice of words. And by a minute or so of that confused squinting and staring, Dean finally caught on.

“Team Free Will,” he said again, “That’s what I've decided to call us.”

“That’s… that’s kind of clever, actually.”

Dean gave his famous shit eating grin, one that Cas had become rather familiar and comfortable with over the last six days.

“We’re not really a team though, Dean,” Cas said, rolling a rock in his hand. “If it’s the two of us, then it’s just a partnership.”

“Team Free Partnership doesn’t really roll off your tongue too well,” Dean countered, and Cas couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

Although, it did spark an idea. And Cas never really noticed, but the sparks always seemed to be created by Dean. Ideas rippled from him, an open book with hidden subplot that got picked up piece by piece.

“What if we did make it a team?”

“What do you mean?”

Cas gave a quick glance around, checking to make sure that no tributes were passing by, attempting to eavesdrop on their conversation, but there wasn’t anyone within a twenty foot radius close to the fire station. Cas dropped his voice low anyways.

“Allies aren’t a bad thing to have in these situations,” Cas said, speaking slowly so Dean caught each of his words. In the dirt at his feet, he drew a little circle. “Every single person that will be fighting in that arena will be a kid, just like us. As an individual, with nobody protecting you, you’re more likely to be stabbed from behind. However,” around the small circle, he drew another, then another, and another, until his original dot in the sand was surrounded by other dots in a defensive field, “strength in numbers was always the winning card in war. Maybe we can smuggle more children out.”

“That’s a great idea, Cas. But there’s just one problem.”

Dean leaned in really close, close enough to make Castiel’s heart flutter and for the air to become thick. _Don’t be foolish,_ he thought, but couldn’t help feel excited at least slightly. A little bit of a thrill.

“How do we know who to trust on this?”

Cas shrugged his shoulders. “Valid question. We just have to make a descent judgement.”

Dean pondered over this new addition to the plan. Definitely a good idea. He looked up and gave the gym a once over, and his eyes found Becky, a carving knife in one hand and a long wooden staff in the other, forming a makeshift spear. She worked alone, completely focussed on the carving. Dean noticed that a lot in her. They didn’t talk very much in the last week, with the occasional “hey”. Dean’s attention was mostly stolen by away by Castiel, but Dean always made sure he knew where she was and what she was working on, knowing that Bobby was giving her tips and hints along the way. She was useless at using weapons, her arms shook too much and they were too heavy for her thin body, especially with heavy recoiling firearms, but she did okay with scavenging skills and making animal traps, at least from Dean’s observations.

Poor Becky. How the hell did she wind up in here?

He thought of Becky running around, blonde hair wrapped around her neck, sweat and tears mixed in her eyes, lost in that big arena. Poor little Becky, with her cannon fired and face in the night sky.

Weren’t they supposed to vote to win?

And Dean felt the guilt weigh on him for the first time since that day, his pen writing down two names in a messy but readable scrawl.

_Dean Winchester._

_Grace Miles._

Maybe Becky was voted in because everyone was thinking the same thing as Dean. Vote for her because there’s no way that they’d pull her name.

That’s why she was here.

“Her,” Dean pointed, and Cas turned to look at her.

“We can rely on her?”

“She’s scared to death, Cas,” Dean replied, “Would do just about anything to get out. I think we can.”

He paused for a little bit, thinking, remembering the night when he tried to escape and Becky was too frozen to come along. He remembered knocking on her door quietly and her shocked face when he told her they could get out, go back home.

And she was scared of heights. Above all other things, she couldn’t bare the thought of standing thirteen stories over the ground, suspended only by a rope and the faith Dean Winchester put into the knot.

Dean had pleaded with her, promising over and over that he wouldn’t let her fall, that she’d be safe, but she just shook her head and closed the door on his face.

Dean remembered that she had a book in her hand, and recognized it to be the one he read to her on the train.

_(real is something that happens to you)_

Becky was going to die within the first five minutes of the Games if he didn’t do something about it. And she didn’t have to, didn’t deserve it.

None of them deserved to be in there.

Cas nodded. “Alright,” he agreed, “I’ll let you discuss that with her, then. You know her much better than I do.”

“What about Anna?” Dean asked, motioning towards the crossbow firing range, where the red head was practicing with profound grace, but Castiel bit his lip on this one.

“No,” he said, “She’s too… too much of a soldier.” The words came alongside a regretful sigh, walking hand and hand. “We got trained our whole life believing that the most honourable way to die was in the Hunger Games, Dean. She fully believes that, believes that she’s chosen to do this as her mission, bring glory to 1. I don’t blame her, with all the brainwashing they’ve put her through. I went to school with here, did classes with her. She’s born to do this. Bred for this.”

“What keeps you from thinking the same thing?” Dean asks, eyebrow raised.

Cas looked him in the eye, and smiled. “I found God burning in a wave of fire, Dean. And then I wanted to make myself good again.”

Never once, in all of Dean Winchester’s short eighteen years of life. had he ever met someone as beautifully poetic as Castiel Novak. Someone who could take words and form them into crystals. Wonderful, hard poetry that made your mind think and wander and be in bliss. His words were like that.

Dean told Cas this, and Cas laughed softly, quietly, his hands returning to the stones, trying to make a spark. “My older brother would tell me the same thing,” he replied, “Not Lucifer. A different brother. His name is Gabriel, and he would make fun of me all the time for being the baby of the household. But I would just speak, and there would be a glimmer in his eyes. Told me I had talent, wasting my time shooting arrows.”

“Ever think about writing a book? Or doing poetry full time?” 

“Multiple times,” the smile that found Cas got a little bigger. “I would have, too. But District 1 banned that type of creativity right after the Dark Days, determined to become the Capitol’s lap dog. If I was caught writing something like that, they’d torture me and cut out my tongue. Never was brave enough to take the risk, for once. Every now and then, though, I’ll have a few lines that I’ll keep in storage.” He tapped his forehead with two fingers.

“Storage for what?” Dean questioned, curious.

Cas gave him a sparkling expression. “For the day when magic makes its comeback.”

The two fell quiet after that, a sort of nice quiet, the rest of the world noisy and full of commotion and action, but the two of them just thinking. About life, about wonderful and terrible and awestruck things.

Enough to last them one forever. One extraordinary eternity.

Cas got a fire going, managed to keep it alive this time, and then the boys moved on. The day was growing older, and they had exactly three people on Team Free Will (Cas decided that the name should stick), and three was a very small number. They had already ruled out the kids in Districts 2 and 4, the other Career Districts alongside 1. Cas was right; brainwashed their whole life, and this was their one shot at glory. They were never going to give it up easily. But they looked anyways, seeing who they could scout out.

“What about that kid over there?” Dean pointed towards the disguise station. Sitting on a small stool was a small teenaged boy, who couldn’t be much older than Sam, fifteen was what Dean would have guessed. In his hand he was mixing what looked like a grey clay, adding water, fiddling with the consistency. Every few seconds he would test it against his bare forearm, then go back to mixing. Black hair hung in his slanted eyes, and his skin was deathly pale.

“His name is Kevin Tran,” Cas said, “Male tribute from District 3.”

 

“How’d you know that?” “He’s practically famous,” Cas eyed Dean, “You’ve never heard of him?”

Dean shook his head, and Cas took the opportunity to educate him about this boy. “At ten years old, he discovered a new type of electroshock therapy that reorganizes the chemicals in your brain to get rid of mental disorders, with close to no side effects. The Capitol ravished in that, basically hired him for a life long career in medical engineering. Extremely intelligent.”

There was a sad light in Cas’ eyes now. “I’m sorry that it couldn’t save him from all of this,” he said, “A good future was in front of him, could’ve brought 3 straight out of poverty. Look at this world wasting him away.”

A sad thought, that was. Knowing that you were a genius, only to go into a battlefield with a one out of twenty-four chance to make it out alive again. Even less than that. Dean wondered if Kevin had family. He wondered what they were thinking, what he was thinking. If he felt betrayed by his District, where he had such great plans and ideals and now that was just stolen away from him by these stupid Games.

Here they were. Team Free Will, introducing a high school dropout with six bucks to his name and attempted escape artist, God's Poet, Blondie and Genius Boy over there.

All wasted on these Games.

 

A sad thought.

“I think he should come with us,” Dean spoke up.

“Agreed.” 

“When should we corner him?”

 “I’ll track him down tomorrow,” Cas answered, “Maybe during training, or if I can find him outside the gym would be preferable. Less ears, fewer eyes. I don’t think he is the type to give us away, either. The option will be given to him.”

Dean nodded subtlety in like-mindedness. “Good idea.”

The remainder of their day went on like the other six days. Training, back and forth correcting and fixing and perfecting each other. Eventually, they did return to the guns, to which Dean had no visions and heard no voices, something that still haunted him from that back of his mind. He pushed the worries down, though, making sure Cas new how to turn the safety on and off, made sure that he knew to brace himself for the recoil. He did alright with the rifles, tried once or twice with a sniper rifle with a scope, but he found his comfort in the smaller hand guns. He held them properly, and they seemed to fit in his hands better, less awkward and bulky. Wasn’t a bad shot either, and that made Dean rather proud.

Never thought of himself to be a teacher.

And then Dean noticed that the hand to hand combat ring was open, and nudged Cas in the side.

“Hey,” he said with a smug grin, “wanna fight?”

“I don’t want to accidentally hurt you, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t help but burst into a fit of full body laughter, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “ _You_ hurting _me_? Seriously, dude?”

“Is that a problem that I’m concerned about possibly injuring you?”

“Yeah, man. You basically just said I couldn’t beat you!”

Cas considered this.

“Well, I am pretty good at hand to hand.” 

Dean gave him a sly grin. “You know what that means, right?”

A minute later, the two boys found themselves standing in the ring, staring each other down, Cas still with concern on his lips and Dean with that look that made him appear slightly ecstatic, like he was about to have the time of his life since he got to this hellhole.

They circled one another, both keeping their distance, observing their opponent with hyperawareness, quick up and down glances, watching, waiting.

Finally, given what seemed like forever, Cas threw out a kick at Dean’s side, which he dodged with ease, almost playfully. Cas attempted to make up for this by aiming a quick punch at his jaw, which also ended up in vain. Their distance was reset, and Dean smiled and shrugged.

“Gotta be faster, angel baby,” Dean winked, “My kid brother can beat my ass and he’s fourteen!”

The second the words left his mouth he regretted them, when a force exploded with the side of his head, his ear ringing like a children’s choir. He cussed, and Cas chuckled.

“What was that, old man? You know if you don’t speak up the world’s never going to hear you.”

“Old man?!” Dean cried, “I’m eighteen you bitch!”

“You’re too grumpy to be eighteen, more like eighty.” Cas was getting cocky now, something unusual out of character, and it excited Dean. He liked to see some variation in emotion, some spunk every now and then. The blood pounded through his veins, a steady rhythm of drums in his chest.

Oh, he missed this.

His right leg swung up in a crescent kick, coming around to only graze Cas’ cheek, Cas leaning back to avoid it, barely saving himself. Punches and kicks and backhands were exchanged, none of them landing a good hit.

“C’mon, angel! Hit like you mean it!”

“Don’t call me that, grandpa!” Cas called back, but a grin grew on his face.

“You like it,” Dean laughed, blocking one of Cas’ hook punches, and instantly saw Cas’ weakness in a split second moment. His centre of balance shifted with his attacks, a bit too far off it’s normal equilibrium. Sometimes dangerous, but useful to get that strike an inch or two closer to making contact. But if your opponent noticed, it was easy to be taken advantage of.

So Dean waited, keeping up the smiles and the laughs, and Cas followed suit, convinced that Dean didn’t have a plan in mind.

So when Cas tried to land a side kick in Dean’s stomach, he never would had guess that Dean was prepared, and caught it, ready to twist him in midair and to throw him to the floor as his victory move.

But of course, Cas was smarter than that.

He was quick to pull the kick back, and immediately again threw a low one, just catching the back of Dean’s knee, and sending him spiralling to the ground.

And before Dean toppled over, he found a hold on Cas’ shirt, crying out, “Not today, Novak!” and the two of them collapsed, Cas accidentally landing onto of Dean, Dean releasing an “omph!” sound in response, followed by light giggling in his shortness of breath.

“I win,” Cas huffed out. Suddenly, though, Dean managed to flip them over, pining Cas’ wrists above his head to the padded floor, straddling his hips. Dean bit his lip with his dumb grin.

“Nah. Not today.”

And that’s when something really strange happened.

Their hearts stopped beating. And time stopped ticking. And the universe couldn't understand the sparks emitted from their heavy breaths, the way the land and the skies connected, interlocked, not breaking away. Cas wanted to count the freckles on Dean’s nose, wanted to find the constellations, trace them. Dean wanted to lose himself in Castiel’s voice, his words, his stories, his _art_ that was himself.

It was a quiet moment. A quiet moment that lasted for a thousand forevers.

They didn’t know how long they stayed there like that, with Dean onto of Cas and them just being completely lost in one another. It was a strange feeling. A feeling that for whatever reason, they wanted to last.

They didn’t want to fight. They never wanted to kill, they wanted to _live_.

They wanted to live knowing what it was like falling for each other, to fall asleep next to each other, to be alive in one another.

The Escape Artist. God’s Poet.

Oh, they wanted desperately to love, desperate for hope and redemption and an escape. A miracle.

Now, they found their miracle. Dean’s caught between his thighs, the weight of Cas’ above him.

Maybe Miracles do exist.

Maybe. I do believe that this was one of the days that they wondered if this was love. Not the first. But one of the last.

They’ll know soon enough.

Today wasn’t the day they fell in love. Not for certain.

But they definitely fell.

And they fell fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, please excuse the long wait for this update. It was in fact a difficult chapter to write and there was school and all sorts of things keeping me from the computer. 
> 
> Since it's now Christmas break, I will have a bunch of time to write, so expect an update sooner rather than later.
> 
> Thanks for reading once again! Hope you enjoyed the small piece of "action" at the end. (Next chapter will speed things up a bit, don't worry, and will be extremely fluffy. Or so I hope.)
> 
> Maybe Miracles do exist...
> 
> \--Marina


	12. Chapter 12

**This Is the Way the World Ends, Pt. 1**

_It’s freezing tonight. Freezing, dark, absolutely soundless, even when Dean’s heavy hunting boots crunch against the snow. Every breath he exhales releases a faint mist from his mouth, rising up to touch the stars. His rifle is slung across his shoulders, toque over his ears, but despite that and his winter gloves the cold air still bites at his skin with sharp teeth. Dean just grits his teeth together and carries on._

_He’s been walking for some time now, perhaps forty minutes of what seemed to be mindless wandering, and perhaps he would be able to tell how much of it he had wasted had he not forgotten his watch back at the house._

_He glances at the stars for a second, stops in his tracks in the small clearing to listen to the silence. The beautiful, beautiful silence that sounds its horns in his head and made the night a little more understandable, the forest giving comfort instead of terror in the shadows of the trees._

_He smiles, and flinches, his bruised jaw striking momentary pain. So he stops smiling, trying to forget that his father was a drunken old man who liked to use Dean as his punching bag. He keeps his eyes on those stars, though. Imagines what the angels must see when they soar amongst the cosmos. He wonders if angels really do watch over him, like his mother would tell him when he was really young._

_He sighs, watching his breath sail high, evaporating into thin air. Man, he could just look at those stars forever, they were always the best in December, the month they shined the longest and the brightest. They make up for the shortness of light, for the world’s darkness._

_He’s about to continue walking, when he hears something. It breaks his perfect silence. Not a twig snapping of a passing by animal or the shaking of branches, as he’s used to, this noise is different. It sounds like a cry. A wounded cry._

_This startles Dean out of his starlit trance, and immediately his rifle is in his hands, finger light on the trigger, green eyes darting around, trying to find the source. But he’s alone._

_Not a single other life form except him and the trees, the angels and the constellations._

_That cry shrieks again. It sounds father away, while the first time it voiced it was almost as if it were right there with him in that small opening. Sounded so close._

_It happens again, and Dean figures out it’s coming from somewhere on his lefthand side. His gun lowers. Finger stays put._

_And suddenly, Dean remembers where he is._

_He’s been here before. He’s walked this earth before, looked up at these stars before in the ever long silence of these woods._

_He’s in a dream. A memory._

_This doesn’t cause him to relax, though. In fact, it heightens his awareness, and he swallows hard, shivering against the cold, listening, waiting for that cry again. He’s been here before, he knows exactly what’s in those woods, knows what will happen when he goes to find the source of the screeching._

_December 19th. He’s seventeen, turns eighteen next month, balancing a job in the mines and hunting the best he can. The reaping wouldn’t take place until late May. He was out this night because a mountain lion had taken a school girl from 12 and scattered her remains in town, horrifying everyone, and he was determined to kill it with ten bullets lodged in its brain and then sell its coat for a high price._

_Sam and John are long asleep, oblivious to his plan._

_However, Dean never gets the lion. Never even sees it, let alone kills it. Instead he gets planted with an image that will haunt him for the rest of his life._

_He stands in that clearing, wondering why he was dreaming about this moment. It’s insignificant, even for a mental scar that follows him, just a little scare. So why was he here?_

_The pained bleat echoed again, and Dean couldn’t find the will to make his legs move towards it. He did it once, he won’t do it again. He didn’t want to remember it._

_He feared it._

_There was the crunch of snow from behind him._

_Dean’s survival drive kicks in, and he spiralled around with the gun raised, so ready to shoot and ask questions later, and was taken aback when he didn’t._

_“Hey, Dean.”_

_The boy walked out into the clearing, his long hair starting to get in his eyes and his eyes shining brighter than ever, with a goofy, puppyish grin that made him look younger than it should._

_This wasn’t a part of the memory that Dean remembered._

_This was new._

_Dean lowered the gun. “Hey, Sammy.”_

_Sam never knew that Dean had gone late night hunting for the killer lion. Never had, never will. He definitely never followed Dean out into the woods in pitch black either._

_There is something different too, about the dream-version Sam. He’s taller, which Dean never thought to be a possibility at this point, but he has grown. He seems more mature, a few extra lines on his face, no longer the skinny nerd Dean grew up with, but with broader shoulders and muscles built on him. He’s no longer a boy. He’s outgrown the definition of “boy.”_

_Sam chuckles, and Dean guess that dream-him could read his mind, considering that he was quite literally in his mind. “Thirty-four, Dean,” Sam says, tucking his hands into his pockets, “This is me at thirty-four.”_

_Dean nearly drops the gun. “No way.”_

_“Yes way, brother,” Sam smiles._

_“Well, look at you,” Dean says, starting to grin, walking towards his brother, “All grown up.”_

_Sam’s smile is quickly replaced with a panicked look, and defensively he holds up a hand. “Don’t come any closer.”_

_Dean stops, frowning. “Why not? It’s a dream, Sam, it won’t hurt us… hell, you’re not even really here, you’re back in 12 being fourteen. This isn’t real.”_

_But Sam shakes his head slowly. “No, Dean. I can’t explain it to you, but you can’t come closer. You just can’t. Please, don’t come towards me. I don’t want to hurt you.”_

_The fiction-junky in Dean starts to think of ideas, and all the plots of all the sci-fi and fantasy books he’s read in the past five years come flooding back._

_“Is this a dream?” Dean asks, in a hushed whisper. Like some other force could hear them. Like something is going to attack them. Destroy them._

_Sam takes his time to answer, and when he does, Dean finds no comfort in his words._

_“I don’t know.”_

_In the midst of this hallucination, this dream that might not even be a dream, there is something else that grabs at Dean, a detail that begs for attention. That piece of time holds something incredibly happy and incredibly sad, a paradox that tugs at his heartstrings. His baby brother lives. His baby brother who he has worked so hard to protect has turned from boy to man, maybe with a wife, maybe with children. This was the Sam who never had to go through the Hunger Games. Who got a chance of life._

_But Dean didn’t get to see all of that._

_20 years in one dream, and Dean got to watch none of it. Missed it._

_And then there was fear in his heart, because, what if—_

_“I don’t know if you’re going to die in these Games, Dean,” Sam says, kicking lightly at snow by his feet. There hasn’t been a fresh snowfall in days, but when he nudges it, it flies up as though it’s fluffy and white instead of aging like stones. “I really don’t know, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is that Castiel Novak’s plan isn’t going to work, and bad things, terrible things are going to happen whether or not you live or die.”_

_This is beginning to scare Dean, more than the actual memory ever did._

_“You don’t know that.” “_

_But I do, Dean,” Sam says, almost pleading, so close to pleading. “No matter what happens, I know that Sam Winchester, the boy who was supposed to go and become a murderous king out in the arena and was saved by his brother, lives. I know that is the outcome because of the first choice you’ve made, that first sacrifice. But Castiel only spells out bad things, this plan is never going to work and no matter how hard you try this will turn out bad.”_

_Dean gets that drowning sensation again, the feeling he got trying to teach Cas how to shoot, when he saw the faceless child for the second time. He has no idea what to make of this information, if it’s even true or not. He can’t breathe._

_He goes with his gut instinct. Like he always has._

_“You’re a dream, Sam. You’re playing off my fears. That’s what dreams do. That’s what_ nightmares _do. They take everything that makes you want to die and they sentence it on you like hounds, and they rip you to pieces. That’s all you are.”_

_“Dean, you have to believe me on this—”_

_“God damn it, Sam!” Dean cries, and he throws down the rifle, “You’re a fucking dream! Now get out of my head!”_

_“Castiel’s plan can get you killed!”_

_“And it might be the key to my survival!” Dean counters, “The key to keeping the humanity I thought for sure I’d loose in that hell! Why am I even fighting with you?”_

_“Because you’re questioning the truth of my existence,” Sam answers. He’s calm, now that he knows he has Dean trapped in a corner, trapped like a rat in a cage, and he knows that he’s right. Dean’s not sure._

_He knows that Sam is just like he said: a nightmare._

_Then why does he have this sick feeling in his stomach?_

_“Dean, listen to me,” Sam says, his tone dead and flat with a deadly type of seriousness, “You cannot go and try to accomplish Castiel’s plan. Escaping that arena is impossible. Only one person is getting out alive and you have to make the choice.”_

_Dean laughs, but it wasn’t like any laughter he’s shared with Sammy before. It’s monotone. Cruel. Barbaric. He doesn’t want to believe Sa. Refuses to believe Sam that Cas is wrong, that his hope of living leaves him a good man. He refuses any other truth. “And what choice do I have?”_

_Sam looks him in the eye, and Dean feels a chill shoot down his spine, and all his radars are telling him that he needs to get out of there right now or he will be killed, but he can’t move. He can’t move because he needs to know the answer._

_Sam takes in a breath, and Dean notices that when he exhales, there’s no trail of fog coming from his mouth._ _It’s only cold for Dean._

_“You have to choose between the two people you love most in this world.”_

_The shrieking came around again, and Dean revolves towards it, staring off into the thick twist of trees, his heart pounding in his chest._

_It was all becoming too real._

_“You have to go face it, Dean.”_

_“Hell no I don’t,” Dean spits. “I already lived through this. I don’t need a repeat.”_

_“You need to choose, Dean,” Sam says again. The way his voice sounds makes Dean feel like throwing up. It doesn’t feel like Sam at all. It sounds misshapen, like he was listening to it through a tin can, and a tin can under water. Warped. Hollow._

_“The Sam I know,” Dean starts, “Is a boy who would want me to get my ass to safety, and he would want me to do it and to make it out without being some kind of demon. He wouldn’t tell me to shove Cas away, he’d encourage the plan and tell me to go through, so I can get home and have my soul all in one piece.”_

_He looks back at the dream man, gritting his teeth. “And he sure as hell wouldn’t make me do this again.”_

_The other Sam doesn’t react. Just gives the light nod of his head._

_“You’re a psychopath,” Dean adds, “You’re not my brother.”_

_“Of course I’m not.”_

_The wounded cry comes again, and Dean just wishes the animal would just fucking die already._

_“I’m you.”_

_And suddenly, the earth wasn’t so silent anymore._

_There was an explosion somewhere farther in the distance, like a shell had made a touchdown. And then there was another, and the darkness was broken by flames catching to the trees, spreading at an surreal pace. And Dean glances up to the skies, and realizes that it wasn’t shells or missiles that were falling._

_They are angels._

_Angels with grand wings that look broken and battered as they tumble through the air, descending, crashing to earth, crashing into hell. The angels that watched over Dean all his life._

_And one by one, the stars go out._

_Dean ducks, covers his head with his arms the way his dad always taught him, and braces himself for what was ultimately the apocalypse._

_And, just like that._

_Darkness restores itself unto the world._

_He hears it first. The way his ears go deaf, and he wonders if maybe he woke up from this horrible ordeal. That he would wake up and find himself flailing in bed in the tribute’s tower, fists clenching the sheets, bathing in his own sweat._

_But he opens his eyes, and finds the air is still ripping at him with its arctic bite, and his boots still in the snow._

_And the snow is stained red._

_Dean’s hands are still clasped over his ears, and when he removes them he finds himself in a blanket of disturbing quiet, and uncomfortable quiet that leaves him longing for the peace he had at the beginning of this dream, or memory, or vision or whatever it was. He looks around to discover that nothing is on fire, and then looks up and sees that the stars are still in place. As if all hell hadn’t just been breaking loose, as if the world wasn’t coming to an end._

_But the snow is stained red._

_His eyes follow the colour, tracing it, seeking the source. He knows what it is, he’s seen this before. He follows the trail of blood, not noticing that his gun mysteriously found its way back across his shoulders._

_And then his eyes meet the wounded animal, and it is not what he knows._

_He expected the rest of this to play out like the original memory. He walks towards the shrieking, follows the blood trail, and finds a stag. It’s injured, a leg or two possibly broken, bent at odd angles, and bullet holes piercing its neck, and somehow the poor thing was left breathing. In short, staggered, out of rhythm breaths, it continued to live._

_But it was the eyes that always unnerved him._

_By who or by what, he has no clue. But the artist had a dark image, and had gorged the beautiful creature’s eyes out in a freak show mess._

_Those empty, bloody eye sockets became the nightmare Dean had to fight off for weeks, waking up, shaking at the mere sight of them._

_And somehow, it was left breathing._

_Dean had took the gun and shot the stag in the head, put an end to it’s suffering and left wondering who was as sadistic to leave an animal this scratched up, left it alive, an he became angry, with sympathy, with empathy, screaming on the inside that a beautiful creature had gone to waste, and on what? What was the purpose of that?_

_That was the original memory. But this is not what he knows._

_A scream is heard, and this time he knows its human. The way it punctures the air with such intensity that Dean would rather be a deaf man than hear it again. But the screams kept coming, and that wounded thing just wouldn’t die._

_It hung onto life._

_An angel lays at the base of a tree, naked and shivering against the snow. It’s black wings flap desperately in attempt to escape, but Dean sees that it’s legs and arms were bound by chains, cutting into its wrist and ankles and drawing out blood. It tries to fight for itself, to save itself from the knife painting pictures in it’s back and feathers._

_And it’s eyes._

_Those poor, sky blue eyes were gorged out in the most brutal manner._

_And the angel screams._

_The slashes in it’s back were deep, and the knife struck down, over and over in some psychotic dance, and the angel was going to die if Dean didn’t do something about it._

_And he would have, in two seconds. And he would have, if the wielder wasn’t wearing his brothers face, with a prevented grin plastered onto it._

_So Dean did the only thing he could._

_He screamed, too._

_“Stop it! Stop it, he’s had enough! Sammy!”_

_But Sam didn’t because that wasn’t Sam._

_It was a monster._

_Sam raises the knife above his head, looking as if the song would never end, the choir would never stop singing. But he holds it there, and looks Dean in the eye. There’s blood on his mouth._

_And suddenly, he’s not the thirty-four year-old version Dean met tonight._

_It’s baby brother Sammy. Age fourteen._

_Still just a fucking kid._

_A fucking kid, slaughtering a poor, flightless bird._

_“You have to choose, Dean,” Sam hisses, a laughter slipping through his lips like snakes. “You have a choice, and that choice ends with a bullet through him, or through me.”_

_Dean raises the gun again. “You’re not Sam!” he cries. “Stop hurting him! Leave him alone or I swear to God—”_

_“Oh, my,” Sam giggles in a fit, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth and smearing blood across his cheek. “You really do love this bird, don’t cha? You really love him to the point that you would rather murder your own flesh and blood than let this broken bird suffer a second longer. Well… Lover over brother. I never expected that of you.” Sam lifts his leg sharply and brings his heel down on the angel’s collarbone._

_And in that moment, Dean wanted to die._

_The angel was fragile. And now, Sam shattered him._

_And his sobbing, and his tears he could not cry, were enough to make Dean Winchester want to die._

_Anything but listening to him get hurt. Anything._

_Anything to block out those screams of anguish. Anything._

_“Just shoot me, Dean, if you pick him over me!”_

_And Dean was prepared to do so. This wasn’t Sammy, this wasn’t his brother from District 12, this wasn’t the same boy he pulled out of their house fire fourteen years ago, this was the nightmare that crawls and scratches at him and eats away at his heart and soul and leaves nothing behind, wearing his brother as a meat suit._

_This isn’t Sammy. And Dean was dead set on pulling that trigger._

_“Dean?”_

_There._

_There was that voice. The voice that was familiar to him. The voice that was_ home _._

_It was there, and it was small, and now it spoke._

_“Dean, I’m so sorry.”_

_The monster that had been hacking away at the angel now seems to have disappeared completely, and what replaces it is a small shell of a boy. A boy wondering why there’s a knife in his hand and blood on his face and a half dead angel at his feet. A boy with his lip quivering, the panic setting in, his breathing speeding up as he realizes that he is the one who has caused all of this pain._

_“Oh, god, Dean, I’m so sorry…” Sam collapses, his shaking knees giving wake, and a trembling hand rushes to tend to the slashes on the angel, his lips moving in a solemn “oh no oh no I’m so sorry Dean I didn’t mean to I promise I didn’t want to hurt him I’m so so sorry…”_

_Now._

_That was the choice._

_Choice one was that he could shoot the angel, that beautiful angel, and put him out of his misery._

_Choice two. Shoot Sam._

_Sam Winchester vs Castiel Novak._

_His baby brother, or the man that his heart longed for? The angel of his world, that he was convinced was going to save his soul._

_The two people Dean Winchester loved more than anybody else in this universe._

_And he has to kill one._

_How do you kill someone you love?_

_Now, there’s an interesting question. That is indeed an interesting question. How do you go by ending their life like that?_

_Well. It’s simple._

_You don’t._

_Dean takes the gun, pumps it once, the raises it so the tip of the barrel rests just underneath his chin. His thumb gets ready to pull the trigger. “_

_I can’t choose,” he whispers. “I don’t have to choose.”_

_And he pulls it._

And with a bang, Dean Winchester wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had to be split into two parts, due to the fact that it was over twenty pages long. I hope I kept you on the edge of your seats for the duration of this section, because believe me, writing it was very intense!
> 
> The next part will be up soon.
> 
> -Marina


	13. Chapter 13

**This Is the Way the World Ends, Pt. 2**

A suit and tie weren’t very familiar on Dean.

He had somewhat nice clothes in 12, but that was only a wrinkling button up shirt that he wore for the reaping every year and the hand-me-down ties he received from John or Bobby. Sure, every walk and again he’d pass the tailor shop in town and give a wanting glance at the suit behind glass, but the Winchester boys had better things to spend their money on, like school, or secretly saving up for an old beat up car.

But now, as Dean stood in front of the mirror, with a white suit jacket and freshly ironed pressed pants to match, and with Sam’s amulet tucked underneath his shirt, lightly brushing his chest, he couldn’t help but give a small smile.

He looked good.

The door behind him opened, and Ellen walked in with a length of black fabric in her hand. This evening she wore her regular black outfit and smoky eyeliner, her hair ruffled down by her shoulders. Upon seeing Dean, she laughed.

“Well, I was right when I said white was your kind of colour.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s gonna get stained.”

Ellen smacked Dean lightly on the back of the head, and Dean chuckled. “Nah,” he said, “I’ll try my best to keep it clean.”

Ellen spun the boy around, and threw the black tie around his neck, focussing intently on forming a knot, hands working slowly and motherly, despite Dean being fully capable of tying his own tie. He was eighteen, not twelve, but he let her anyway.

And for a moment, Dean imagined that she was Mary. That Mary was fixing his suit and tying his tie because he was too lazy and late for some stupid school dance and the girl he was taking was really pretty and Mary wouldn’t allow him out of the house looking like a homeless kid.

He remembered practically dressing Sam for the reaping, not too long ago, when he had it facing the wrong way and Dean had poked fun at him for it.

_(jerk.)_

_(bitch.)_

Dean missed Mom. He missed Sam.

“Hey, Ellen, do you have any kids?”

Ellen smiled. “Nah.” Her eyes said different, though, and Dean caught it. Just a slight flash of discomfort that lay in there, just for a second, but it was more than definitely there. And Ellen knew it too, and sighed.

“I did,” she admitted, probably reluctantly, “Only ever had one.”

She went on tying for a while longer before continuing. “Her name was Jo,” she said, not meeting Dean’s. She kept up her smile, as though this wasn’t bothering her in the slightest. “She was tall, blond hair, a cocky girl with no filter on her mouth, but she was a sweetheart. Back when we lived out in District 3—”

“You weren’t born in the Capitol?” Dean asked, surprised. Ellen shook her head.

“Nope. Born and raised in 3. I was a hairdresser at the time, good at my job. Jo was in school, wasn’t bad at it. Smart kid, sometimes a rebellious brat.”

Dean was hesitant to ask her what came next. He had a dreadful feeling in his chest, a sinking, deadly feeling. Predicting the outcome to the story.

“Where’s Jo now?”

Ellen stayed silent, and her hands came to an unsteady rest, shaking, just a little. She was contemplating it. Spilling the beans, and Dean knew it was coming, could sense it.

“Dead,” Ellen finally answered, a slight crack in her voice that she quickly covered up.

And Dean _knew_.

“How old was she when she was reaped?”

“Fifteen. She would have turned twenty this month.”

Dean remembered now.

Jo Harvelle. Age fifteen. He remembered watching her Games, the year after Benny died. She didn’t even get past the first day. Was killed in the initial bloodbath, trying to reach the Cornucopia. She was stabbed to death.

She had been pretty, too.

Ellen continued on quietly, finishing the knot, flattening it against Dean’s chest, smoothing last minute creases in his shoulders. “After that happened, the Capitol had the nerve to offer me a job as a stylist for the Games. There was nothing left for me back in 3 after Jo, my husband had hit the dirt when she was little. So, I took the job, and I regret it.”

“Why's that?"

“Because every year, I watch some sad boy from 12, a boy who I get attached to, who I could almost see them as my own son from the few weeks I know them, and I watch them get slaughtered. And every year, they break my heart. And then you showed up, Winchester.”

Now, she did look at Dean, and he saw the water building in her eyes and the way she allowed no tears to fall, holding them back.

“You have a chance,” she whispered, “Please use it, and make it out of there. There’s fire in you, kiddo, a burning fire that spells out survival. I don’t want to see any more of my babies die, Dean.”

Dean was at a loss for words. He wanted to say he was sorry, to hug her, to tell her it wasn’t her fault that Jo was dead, that the Games were evil and that he was going to come back and she could quit her job and never have to live through this again, to start anew. But he didn’t. He watched her not cry, because the world doesn’t have time or sympathy for those who cry. The world only has time for those who fight back, who want things to change. Ellen was one of those people.

“I embed those words into your back because the moment I saw you I knew that you could pull through. You became my symbol, a hope, and I was sick of the Capitol’s shit. I’m sick and tired of watching innocent children get slain like they don’t mean anything in the world. So you go in there, and you get out, Dean Winchester. You show them what you’re made of, and tonight…” from her back pocket, she pulled out a rose, and placed it neatly in Dean’s lapel, the vibrant red contrasting the white magnificently, and for once, red didn’t remind Dean of blood on snow, where an angel lay dying.

But it reminded him of hope.

“…tonight, forget that they see you less than human,” Ellen finished. “Forget that they see you as a play thing. Tonight, get drunk, party, have the time of your life, and don’t give a flying fuck. Don’t let them destroy you.”

And at that moment, Dean pulled her in for a hug, and he himself was close to crying, and stopped himself.

“Thanks, Mom.” He whispered, and he could almost see Ellen’s smile as she wrapped her arms around him.

“No problem, tiger.”

***

A car was there to pick him up from the tower, and Dean walked to it, breathing in the city air, and he could smell the rotten fruit underneath the excessive perfume. This city was the home of devils, disguised, hidden underneath layers of fancy jewels and gold. Even Dean could spot what paradise was supposed to look like and what fake heavens were.

He opened the back door and took a seat beside Becky, who was formally dressed in a wonderful blue dress, her hair pinned up with a few curled ringlets falling beside her rosy cheeks. Her makeup artist must’ve be wonderful, because they created a lovely scenery of turquoise and blue and a slight edge of pink that brought out her eyes beautifully, and now, Becky wasn’t just a girl with a horse face.

She was a princess.

“Hey,” said Dean.

She nodded back. “Hey,” she said in a small voice.

“You look beautiful,” Dean commented as the car started to drive away, and Becky gave a little smile. Dean could see the bags under her eyes, even under the makeup, and figured she can’t sleep, couldn’t sleep. Fear seeps in, grabs you, pulls you under, and it’s so hard to fight it.

“So do you,” Becky says back, and Dean can’t help but smile right back at her. She’s just a kid.

The car continues, and Dean watches out his window as they pass impressive skyscrapers and brilliant lights flood in onto his face. The car is quiet, the driver never speaks.

But after a few minutes, Becky starts up a conversation. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I never did thank you. For what you did.”

“You did,” Dean responds, thinking that Becky was referencing their time on the train, when he read her that children’s book, the one about the stuffed rabbit becoming Real. “And even if you didn’t—”

“Not the book, Dean,” Becky interrupted, voice trembling a bit, wavering, “I meant Sam. I wanted to thank you for volunteering for Sam.”

This caught Dean by surprise. This was the first time anyone has thanked him for doing that. Of course, he never expected it. He did it for the sake of saving his brother. The only reward he wanted was to know that Sam was safe, no praises or hero backstories, just knowing that Sammy was safe was all he wanted, all he needed.

But here Becky was, thanking him.

“It’s just what big brothers do,” Dean told her, and he caught a sight of Becky’s grin.

“He saved me, once,” she mumbled. “I was being bullied at school by some older kids, and he came and pushed them all away. Then he sat with me at lunch to make sure they wouldn’t pick on me again.”

She looked Dean in the eye. “I don’t have any friends,” she stated, quiet, “I know I’m not pretty, not good enough for a lot of people, but what Sam Winchester did for me that day… I can’t thank him enough. I wish I could. So I thank you, for saving the boy who saved me.”

Dean found his smile again.

That sounded like Sam, alright. The Sam _he_ knows.

He reached out, and gently took Becky’s little hand in his own, and whispered, “You’re welcome.” 

Becky’s fingers gave a small squeeze in reply.

The party for the tributes is always hosted at the President’s palace, which was located somewhere in the centre of the Capitol. Upon arrival, when the car pulled to a stop, Dean noted the amount of paparazzi standing at the sidewalks, waving their cameras above their heads and already trying to snap a photo.

“Don’t let go of my hand, Becky, okay?” Dean says, “Don’t talk to them, don’t answer any of their questions, don’t make eye contact. Okay? We just have to march right through them.”

Becky nodded quickly to show that she understood, and Dean opened the car door, and the two bolted the best they could, never breaking the link of their hands. Dean blocked out all of the questions fired at him, blocked out most of the noise, just trying to get to the doors of the large, brilliant building. It was like swimming in an ocean of human bodies, all of them trying to engulf him, swallow him up.

Hungry for a story.

Finally, after some minutes of struggling, leaving photographers and reporters disappointed in their attempts, they made it up the palace steps, and in through the large, oak doors, both of them out of breath and slightly sweaty from the hustle, Dean with a hand on his chest and Becky leaning against one of the walls.

They made eye contact, and bursted out laughing.

“That was absolutely ridiculous,” Dean huffs out, and Becky agreed, wiping away the tears forming in her eyes from the giggles.

Dean looked up, giving the palace a good once over. Right from the entrance, it opened up to a massive sized ballroom, with cream coloured titles and blue and white gallons hanging seemingly in midair, sort of floating between the floor and the high ceiling, suspended.

There was a bar father to Dean’s right, a few banquet tables to his left, along with round tables and people scattered across them, eating and drinking and laughing. A band played, on a stage up front, with a piano and saxophones and Dean thought he heard violins and a cello in the backdrop of it all. It sounded wonderful. Oh, and it was crowded, filled to the brim with people. People with strange makeup and different coloured skin like pink and pure white and green and wild, wild hair.

It was a party, after all.

Parties were supposed to be wonderful.

“So, what do you wanna do, Becks?” Dean asks, but when he turned to face the girl, she wasn’t by his side anymore, and he had to blink a few times to actually register that he was alone.

Where did she take off to?

He looked around, and there was literally no trace of her anywhere, and that had him confused. Dean tried not to worry. Maybe she was doing exactly what he was going to be doing: pretending. Acting. Try to have fun and forget that they’re the governments soldiers put out to assassinate one another on live television.

So, he stuck his hands in his pants pockets, and did some wandering around.

An idea came to him that maybe he should stop at the bar, get something to drink like a professional adult, get some top shelf whiskey, and he liked that idea. Dean carried on to the right half of the ballroom, and went to go sit at a stool, when he spotted a familiar sight. A boy was there, dressed in a more traditional black tuxedo and a purple tie, sipping on some weird sparkling pink drink through a straw, his blue eyes trying to figure out if he liked the taste.

Dean sat down beside him, and immediately Cas’ face lit up.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Aren’t you a little underaged to be having that?” Dean joked, pointing at Cas’ glass, and Cas just shrugged.

“I don’t think the bartender minds,” he says, taking another sip. Dean steals it from him and takes a sip himself, greeted by a blast of strawberries and mangos in his mouth, joined by an alcoholic swing.

“What even is this?”

“I don’t really know,” said Cas, with a dumb grin on his face, “I just thought it looked pretty, so I ordered one.”

Dean snorted, and then fell into a fit of sniggering, his entire body shaking so much that he had to put his head down to rest on the counter to try and stifle his laughter. Cas only looked at him curiously.

“Did I say something funny?” he asked, with some concern. Dean shook his head, still laughing.

“Oh, Cas,” he says, trying to catch his breath, “Please, whatever you do: never change.”

And that made Castiel smile so wide that it lit up the whole ballroom.

They chatted for a while, commenting on the other’s outfit, Dean ordering that whiskey and then nearly gagging on it, Cas chuckling in the background.

The music filled Dean’s ears, and he rather enjoyed it, scouting the dance floor for any sight of Becky. He saw her, once or twice, dancing with a young boy that surely had to be from the Capitol. She looked happy.

Dean grinned, then got himself another whiskey.

His eyes got stolen by Cas quite a bit while they were sitting at that bar. His suit really fitted his body well, a fancy knot done in his tie.

 _Damn, he’s hot,_ Dean thought, before he could catch himself.

And then he realized, at this point, he didn’t even care.

His only fear was that Cas didn’t feel the same way.

“Lovely look on you,” Dean winked jokingly, and Cas blushed at the compliment.

In a fluster, he replied, “Well, white flatters your eyes. You know, with them being so green and all.”

Dean snuck in a Cheshire cat smile at him, thanking him for the kind words.

Suddenly, there was a shift in the music. No longer was it the soft, jazzy sound of brass instruments and cellos.

Now, it was something a little bit more of Dean’s forte.

Looking towards the music stage, he saw that a live band was taking control, with electric guitars and drums and a keyboard and man did his blood start pumping when they laid out their first song, a fast beat that was recognizable for miles around, and his heart rose into his throat.

_“Lord Almighty,_

_I feel my temperature rising._

_Higher higher,_

_It’s burning through my soul…”_

“Cas, they’re playing Elvis!” Dean shouted, smiling big.

Castiel squinted at him. “Who’s Elvis?” he asked.

“Oh, you’re too innocent,” smirked Dean, and he took Castiel’s hand and led him to the dance floor, swirling around the sea of bodies dancing to the beat until they found themselves somewhere in the middle. “Elvis is _only_ the king of rock  & roll, who pretty much revenged music, and he wrote this song and Elvis man!”

Dean placed one hand on Cas’ hip, the other locked into Cas’ right hand. Without being told, Cas put his left hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to dance,” Cas joked, and Dean laughed.

“Well, then, Mr. Novak,” Dean said, mocking a gentleman’s voice, “I was wondering if you and I could dance to this amazing song that apparently you do not know who Elvis is.”

Cas tossed his head back, chuckling. “Alright,” he answered, “alright. Teach me Elvis.”

So, they danced, a quick paced two step, Dean leading, their eyes never parting.

_“Your kisses lift me higher,_

_like the sweet song of a choir._

_You light my morning sky,_

_with burning love.”_

Dean spun Cas around with grace, and then managed to pull off the octopus, which he hadn’t attempted in since… well, forever.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” Cas asked.

“An old girlfriend taught me,” he said back. “Man, she could swing well. She dumped my ass, though.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Well I was an asshole,” Dean replied, smirking. “And I still am an asshole.”

“I don’t think you’re an asshole at all,” Cas told him, “Maybe a little bit mean, sometimes, a little cocky and sometimes arrogant, but otherwise you’re no asshole, Dean.”

_“It's coming closer,_

_The flames are reaching my body_

_Please won't you help me,_

_I feel like I'm slipping away._

_It's hard to breath_

_And my chest is a-heaving.”_

“Oh, really?” Dean raised an eyebrow at him, curious. “Then how would you describe me?”

Cas took a moment to respond, Dean twisting him around again, dipping him and winking before setting him back on his feet, Cas’s smile never faltering all the while. He looked like he was having a good time.

“First of all, you’re very kind to that Becky girl,” he started. “I saw you hold her hand, running up the steps. Second, you’re very kind to me. Offered me an escape route that one night. Now I was the asshole there, since I turned you down on that and left you to get beaten into the dirt.

“And third…”

Cas hesitated on this one, his eyes on the ground now instead of Dean’s eyes.

_“I’m just a hunk, a hunk of burning love_

_Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love…”_

“You’re just wonderful, Dean. You can sing, you can play piano, you can shoot guns with extreme talent, you are just so easy to fall—”

Cas suddenly stopped, catching himself on the words. There was red rising in his cheeks as the song came to an end, their two step came to a stop that Castiel was already beginning to yearn for again, and the crowd applauded, Dean just staring at Castiel, shocked.

“Thanks, Cas.”

Now Dean wanted to spill, to say things like _oh god Cas you’re so beautiful,_ but all the courage suddenly left him, and he just chuckled, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. He had a motto: _no click flick moments_. Dean Winchester was no sap. Or at least he thought.

The band started to play again, this time, a song much slower. The beginning was heavy on the piano, and it was a tune that Dean didn’t know, but instantly fell in love with. A soft violin accompanied it. It was… sad. Sad but enchanting.

And the words. The lyrics caught him.

“Up for one more, Castiel?” Dean asked, and Cas smiled, and took Dean’s hand in his. And they danced to this sad song, that if possible, made Dean realize for the first time that he had actually fallen in love.

_“Whether near or far_

_I am always yours._

_Any change in time_

_We are young again.”_

Dean Winchester had actually fallen in _love_.

And he didn’t know what to make of it.

Castiel was just so beautiful, so poetic, too pure to be in such an ugly mess and wrapped up in an ugly world. Cas should be off in some far away land, like Japan that he’s read about in old books, with a typewriter and hot coffee and morning sunrises and Castiel just deserved all the wonderful things and Dean wished that he would just kiss him, that their lips would collide already so he would know what Cas tasted liked and so he would know what kissing heaven, an angel, would feel like.

God, Dean Winchester was so stupid. And he knew it, too.

And he didn't give a rat's ass.

_“Lay us down_

_We’re in love.”_

It was a mistake to fall in love with someone when the risks and the tasks hanging above your head made it dangerous, but Dean forgot all about that, just for now.

Just enough to get lost in Castiel’s eyes.

_“Lay us down_

_We’re in love…”_

Just enough to be lost with him.

_“In these coming years_

_Many things will change._

_But the way I feel,_

_will remain the same.”_

And to Castiel, this was the world.

To be here, dancing the night away with none other than Dean Winchester. The Escape Artist, with both heaven and hellfire in those wonderful, wonderful green eyes. The boy who wanted nothing more than to go home.

_It’s not love._

_It’s not love_ , he tried to remind himself. _It’s just lust._

But he knew that it was a lie.

 _Lust_ doesn’t leave you breathless when you look at him. _Lust_ doesn’t leave you longing for his gentle touch, and _lust_ certainly doesn’t leave you the way love does.

 _Love_ leaves you with a very dangerous weapon.

Hope.

 _Love_ makes you want to keep your humanity, for the sake of the other person. Makes you want to hold on, to keep up the good fight, to smile and to defeat the evil in this world because you love this person so damn much and you would do anything to keep them safe. _Love_ is slow dancing with them, learning about them, wanting to save them. Because they are your hope.

How curious it is, that God had him meet his Miracle like this.

How curious that he just happened to fall in love with him.

_“Lay us down,_

_we’re in love.”_

The boy who held constellations hidden in his freckles, the way the light bounced from his sandy blond hair, the boy who was leading him in a slow dance, the boy who became something more than just another tribute in this twisted game.

He became God’s favourite.

_“Lay us down…”_

And Castiel loved him.

_“…we’re in love.”_

The song faded away, a long, melancholy and appealing note to end it that sent shivers down Dean’s spine, and once again the audience clapped and applauded. Dean and Cas didn’t, though. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other, didn’t want to break away, didn’t want this to come to a close. Dean smiled. He would be doing a lot of that tonight.

This was it.

The end of all things.

The crash course to their ultimate destruction, the very end of the line. They fell in love and it was going to cost them, but for now, just for now, they were oblivious to all that could happen.

This was all going to end terribly.

But they had hope.

Oh, they had hope.

The band started again, a new song that Dean didn’t know and didn’t find himself fond of, so he led Castiel out of the crowd, to where, he didn’t know.

The two walked around for a bit, exploring the palace hallways where other guests had taken to socializing, balancing odd drinks in their hands. They didn’t spend too much time looking at the people though, as interesting as they were.

Sometime later, while their walking had become tiresome, Dean stopped at a room with its doors wide open, and after one quick glance inside, he found his legs had stopped working, and his mouth hanging open.

“Woah,” was all he could muster.

It was a magnificent room. The floor was a polished wood that glistened in the crystal chandelier’s light, the walls were painted a sun like gold.

But that wasn’t the only thing that stunned Dean.

It was the instruments the room held.

In the centre, there was a baby grand piano, very similar to the one in the lobby of the tributes tower, but instead of being black, it was white, with black swirls and lovely designs painted across it. On the sides of the room, on stands, were several different types of guitars, Acoustic, electric, five and six string basses all glistening and clean, glinting, wanting to make their sound. Dean’s personal Wonderland.

There was more, too. Woodwinds on one wall, a few drums on another, a large upright bass in the corner, but the thing that caught Dean were the guitars.

He hadn’t played one since that night. The night after the Announcement, where a glass shard had implanted itself in his heel, mixed with burning whiskey.

He hasn’t played a guitar since John muttered the words _I should’ve left you to burn in that fire._ Since Sam came and patched him up with moose fabric pyjamas.

And if there was one thing Dean missed more than Sam back home and more than seeing the Impala everyday, it was the feeling of six strings resting beneath his fingers, and the sound of a B minor chord.

His fingers left Cas’ as he wandered over to one particular acoustic that grabbed at his attention. It’s body was a mixture of a dark brown and a murky black, that looked soft and appealing. The neck was slim, unlike his own at home, and the strings were new and finely tuned.

He gently plucked the D string with his thumb, and listened as the mild note reverberated through the room, and Dean beamed at the sound. Cas had followed him into the room, now standing a few steps behind him.

“Do you play?” he asked, and Dean nodded.

“Yeah,” he answered, “Yeah, I do.”

He wished that he could pick that baby up and give her a few strums, and almost as if reading his mind, a polite coughing came from the door.

Both Dean and Cas both turned to see a man standing behind them. He was short, with greying hair and a large waistline. He was wearing a jacket with a tail, and Dean made the assumption that he was a butler of some sort. He wore a name tag that read “Charles.”

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” the old man asked, and Dean nodded his head.

“They’re amazing,” he whispered, and the man laughed.

“Yes. President Crowley gets them specially made. Auctions them off to Capitol buyers every now and again. They go for thousands.”

That only made Dean eye the instrument even more longingly, and it took his breath away.

The man looked at him with a knowing expression. “You know, you could probably take that one and play it, if you so wish.”

Dean felt his lips curve upward. “Really?”

“Sure,” the old man says, “I never see them used anyways until their auction date. You just have to bring it back, or the President will have my tongue if it gets stolen on my watch.”

He gave kind laughter, and Dean thanked him, taking the guitar lightly in hand and the two boys left the room, both with excited sparks in their eyes.

They wandered through the palace until they found the back doors, leading out into Crowley’s wide and spectacular garden. The stars were out, the moon waxing high and bright, casting a charming glow over the sleeping flowers that seemed to be abundant everywhere.

They took a seat on the steps, Dean removing his suit jacket and rolling up his shirt’s sleeves, Cas picking the rose from his lapel and twirling it, before tucking it into his own for safe keeping. A few of the guests walked through the plants, and they payed no mind or notice to the two, as Dean began plucking at the strings, sending a magical sound into the night air. It made Castiel smile.

“How’d you learn to play?” Cas asked, tucking his knees into his chest. He rested his chin on them, and Dean thought it was one of the most adorable sights he had ever seen.

“Taught myself,” he chuckled. “I bought a run down one from the Hob when I was ten—the Hob’s our market place in 12—and I kinda just picked it up, ya know. I got tips from a few kids when I was still in school, and that helped.”

“How about the piano? Did you simply pick that up, too?”

“Oh, hell no! Piano is a tough thing, man. I would never been able to self teach myself that. Nah, my mom taught me. She was good at it, while we still had our piano.”

Cas frowned. “‘Still had’? What happened to it?”

Dean knew that Cas was just been curious, and that he didn’t mean to pry or be a snoop, but it still hit Dean hard in the heart. He remembered it. Clearly. Vividly. The way the flames ate their home…

“It burned up,” Dean said, quietly. He kept playing as he spoke, just light chords, light notes. “When I was four years old, our place caught fire, somehow. Maybe it was an overturned candle, or the stove was left on, we never did find out. But the night it did…”

He took a breath. It was a hard subject, difficult. He didn’t feel like he was cry but at the same time he really wanted to. Dean wanted to break down.

But he didn’t, because the world has no time for those who cry.

“It took away everything from us. The piano. My mom…”

He stopped there, gave a short bit of laughter to himself. “I carried my baby brother out of that house, Cas. Dad pushed him into my hands and said _take your brother outside as fast as you can. Now, Dean, go._ And you know what? I never did tell Sam that I ran out there, at four years old with a bundle of blankets in my arms. I never did tell him that it was at two in the morning, and that I didn’t understand what was happening, or why Mom didn’t come out running alongside Dad. It just… happened. And I never told him a lot of things that maybe he deserved to know.”

His hands stopped playing.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Don’t be. It’s alright.”

But the truth was, it wasn’t. Dean Winchester wanted to cry, but he didn’t.

He kept up a strong face.

Cas wasn’t convinced. It wasn’t hard to see through the thin mask Dean had put up to shield himself. But he didn’t make any more comments on it. He moved an inch closer, just so their knees were touching, brushing against one another, sending a frenzy of butterflies through Dean’s stomach.

“Keep telling me about your family, Dean.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell.”

“You mentioned Sam. Tell me about him.”

And so Dean did. He went off about how Sam was four years younger than him, that he was a nerdy kid who wanted to study law when he got older. That he had a crush on a girl named Jessica in his class. That he was good with a bow and arrow, a lot like Cas and Cas said something about if he ever met Sam then they should battle it out, and Dean laughed.

How nice would that be. If Castiel met Sam.

“For a good portion of our lives,” Dean went on, “We’ve been saving up for this battered down car. She’s absolutely ancient, and probably needs about ten thousand or something repairs down to her, but she’s gorgeous. We had a jar going, hell, we were almost there, almost at the four hundred dollar mark, but we were a few weeks of pay short.”

Dean ran his fingers through his hair, sighing. Sitting in the blissful quiet, with a guitar on his lap and Castiel by his side.

It felt great. Even more than great.

“Man, if that jar was full, the two of us would’ve been out of there before you could blink twice.”

“You wanted to leave District 12?”

Dean scoffed. “Hell yeah. It was… Jesus, I can’t even describe it. Like, 12 itself ain’t bad. It’s what happened to me growing up that made me hate the damn place so much. The Games, they just ruined everything, especially after my mom died. My dad just went off the rails and became a drunk. Practically raised Sammy by myself. Had to keep Dad from beating him, so I made sure all his hits were directed at me. We fought a lot. He was terrible at being a father, really, I don’t even think he tried. The only good thing he ever did for the two of us was teach us how to hunt and to shoot first, ask questions later.”

At this point, Dean wasn’t sure when, but Cas had reached out, and gripped Dean’s hand with his own, and held it.

It didn’t change anything.

“I don’t hate 12. I just hate the memories that were left there.”

But it was comforting.

“On top of that, fucking 12’ers, decided it would be a good fucking idea to vote for my brother in the Games. He’s fourteen, Cas, and he was this close to becoming a monster. I wouldn’t stand for it. Couldn’t live with it. He’s all I got back home. He’s the reason why I want to go back at all. I need to live for him…”

Cas didn’t say anything for some time, and Dean was okay with that. He needed a break to regain himself.

He remembered the feeling of fear striking his heart when Naomi pulled Sam’s name out of that bowl, when Naomi called the two brother’s up to the stage. He remembered the weight in his legs as he walked up there, how cold Sammy’s fingers felt when he held them. He remembered the horror that was locked in him that had burst like an exploding star, and he couldn’t contain the tears.

_I volunteer as tribute._

It was better this way.

“Any friends, back in 12?”

This was getting really hard for Dean. He was never the type of person to share his feelings, not with Sam, not with anybody. And here he was, pouring out his soul. To Cas. Who he barely knew but was already fucking in love with.

Now he really wished he had a cigarette. He wish that he could smoke ten packs, get high off the sweet, sweet nicotine. Remembered Announcement Day, when Ash had offered him a cig, and he had scolded him for smoking in the mines.

But nicotine did wonders to calm your racing heart.

“Used to. The Games killed him, too.”

_They took everything._

Castiel looked at him with sad eyes, nodded, and then questioned about it no more, and Dean was glad. He didn’t have the guts to tell Castiel that Benny was slaughtered by Lucifer Novak, didn’t have the guts to say “my best friend, my childhood hero, was murdered in the worst way possible by your older brother, and ever since then I’ve been a fucking mess.”

“How ‘bout you?” Dean asked, anxious to get the subject off him, “What level of screwed up is your family on?”

Cas chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s as messed up as yours. But at least you have Sam. At least you’re not the runt of the litter.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I have seven older brothers, Dean,” Cas smiled at him, but there was some definite pain underneath that smile. “It wasn’t bad at all, actually. I mean, when our father was still around, it wasn’t half bad at all. Lucifer and Michael are the oldest, and although they bickered somedays, we could all bear it. But then, Dad went missing. Out of the blue, one day. Lucifer was reaped for the Games. And our little family just…” Cas made an action with his hands to represent an explosion, “It just went to ruins. And on top of that…”

He stopped all the sudden, chewing on his thumb nail, leaving Dean hanging. “No man, what is it? What happened?”

Cas gave a bit of pained laughter. “Dean, I pray that you never have to go through losing Sam. Because losing that little sibling, the one person that you thought that with everything you had, you could protect…”

He rubbed at his face, eyes squeezed shut, dark hair a mess. “Whatever you do, make sure you don’t lose Sam.”

Dean didn’t want to ask. But he had to, because he wanted to know what was eating Cas away like this.

“Who did you lose?”

A pause. A small pause came between them, where Cas just turned his gaze up to the sky, as if searching for something. For someone.

“Her name was Hael,” he spoke, softly. “The youngest out of all of us, our only sister. Dean, she was little. She had brown hair and she wore it in pigtails, and she had the biggest, biggest brown eyes I have ever seen. Along with the biggest smile. Always wanting me to read her one of Dad’s old books.”

He drifted off, scanning the galaxies above them. Dean followed suit.

“What happened to her?”

A deep breath. A heavy sigh. “The Croatoan virus was going around at the time, and she caught it. Her little body just couldn’t handle the pressure of the disease. She died within a week of catching it.”

And now, it was Dean’s turn to look at Cas, his voice stuck in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.” Cas shook his head. “I just hope… I just pray that the Book is right. That there is such thing as heaven, because she was the sweetest, most wonderful thing on this planet, Dean. She was too young to go.”

Another pause.

“We’re all too young to go.”

The silence grabbed at them once again. It wasn’t a bad kind of silence, the awkward kind. More of the necessary kind, the kind that had to be felt, to understand what the other was going through.

“Well,” Dean started, “I guess we’re both a bit messed up.”

“Yeah,” Cas agreed, “I guess we are.”

They sat there for a while. For how many minutes, or hours, they surely didn’t care. And then, Cas did something different.

“Can you play a song for me, Dean?”

So, Dean did. He smiled, and his fingers worked their magic, plucking at strings and creating a still world around the two.

Dean laughed on the inside, and he played, and he sang.

_“And I’d give up forever to touch you_

_‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow_

_You’re the closest to heaven, that I’ll ever be_

_And I don’t want to go home right now.”_

Cas had let his eyes flutter close, a little grin on his lips. He was incredibly tempted to lean his head on Dean’s shoulder, to really make the moment perfect, but he held himself back. Instead, he just listened. Listened to the way Dean’s voice filled up the garden, that made the stars twinkle just a little brighter.

This boy could sing songs beautiful enough to put angels to shame.

_“And I don’t want the world to see me_

_‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand_

_When everything’s made to be broken_

_I just want you to know who I am.”_

It was like a fine, red wine, the way Dean worked with his music. Smooth, intoxicating, and intoxicating in the best way possible. Cas wanted to be drunk on Dean’s voice. It was like… like…

“Loud poetry,” Cas said out loud, his words almost drunk themselves, “It’s like loud poetry.”

Dean beamed in the moonlight. “That’s a nice way to put it. Hey, speaking of poetry, you should really recite me some of your stuff.”

Cas looked at him with big eyes, and gave a nervous gulp. “I-It’s not that good,” he stammered out.

“C’mon!” Dean slapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Show me what you got in that brain of yours. I won’t laugh, no matter what it is, I promise. Hell, it could be about cows, and I’d think it was the most charming poetry out there.”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “Is that because you don’t read a lot of poetry?”

“Just read me some, Novak.” 

Dean played a light melody as Cas thought of a good one to say. He had mentally written so many, and all of them he thought were just mediocre, or were too lame. Gabriel thought they were all good, but that was Gabriel. Gabriel thought a lot of things were cool. Dean was totally different from any of Cas’ brothers.

But he still looked, and with some time, he found one he was comfortable speaking.

“Alright,” he said quietly, “Here we go.”

Inhale.

Exhale.

_“This is the way the world ends._

_This is the way the world ends._

_Not with a bang._

_Not even with silence._

_This is the way the world ends._

_This is the way the world ends._

_Not in chaos._

_Not even with peace._

_This is the way the world ends._

_This is the way the world ends._

_Not in death._

_Not in life._

_The way the world ends_

_Is simply with this._

_Not with fear._

_But with hope._

_The world ends with a spark of hope._

_And not much more.”*_

“It’s dumb,” Cas said, smirking at himself, not meeting Dean’s eyes for fear of seeing rejection in them, “But I’m not that good…”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean sits up, frowning at Castiel, “That was awesome! How do you come up with that?”

Cas shrugged his shoulders, relived with Dean’s reaction. “I’m not sure,” he confesses, “The words, I don’t know, they just come to me, and I sorta string them together and then they just… _are_.”

“Even that was poetic.”

“Shut up.” But Cas was grinning.

Truly, though, Dean was in awe by the stance of Castiel’s poetry. The idea of the world ending with hope, a concept that was all too real for Dean, one that he would pray to an invisible God for, night after night. To go out not embraced in fear, but with a little spark of hope, that maybe, this place wouldn’t always be like this.

Hope.

What a dangerous weapon.

They wasted a bit more time together. Cas told Dean some more of his poetry (one of his favourites being about honey bees), Dean played a bit more music. They watched the fireworks that erupted in the garden, lighting up their faces like small children.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?” 

“Let’s go get ourselves drunk. I think we deserve it.”

***

Dean couldn’t believe just how hammered he could get. And he couldn’t believe just how hammer _Cas_ could get.

By the end of their drinking binge, their many shots of whiskey, they were swaying, red faced, and giggling like there was no such thing as tomorrow, which in a way, there might not be. They danced as often as there was a song that they both liked, (one going along the lines of _“she’s my cherry pie!…”_ ) which with every shot became more and more often.

It was great. Truly, it was.

This was the most fun Dean’s had since he arrived here.

At some point, Dean couldn’t remember rhyme or reason, but the two had wandered into the bathroom, Dean’s arm slung across Castiel’s shoulders, stumbling, mumbling something about the Beatles being sissies and Cas just clicking his tongue.

“No one knows who these beetles are, Dean,” Cas slurred, “Why are you so obsessed with beetles?”

“You must live under a rock,” Dean sassed back.

Upon entering the bathroom, Cas dumped Dean on the floor on the farthest wall, close to the sinks and stalls in case if Dean had the urge to vomit everywhere. Cas turned on a tap, washing his face, still giggling. He drizzled some water onto Dean, and watching him jump up as the cold droplets grazed his face. Drunk Cas found this very amusing, and burst out laughing, falling to sit beside Dean, back against the refreshing wall tiles. They were both rather hot, from all the drinking and the dancing. Cas’ tie hung loosely around his neck, Dean’s was nowhere to be found. The bathroom was nice and cool, and Cas sighed in relief.

“I might be sick,” Dean muttered, with groggy mannerism.

“You can be sick all you want,” Cas hiccuped, “Just please not on this suit.” They both giggled.

And, rather unexpectedly, Dean started to cry.

He wasn’t exactly sure why. But suddenly, he found himself sitting there, beside Cas, and tears were on his cheeks, and a hand rushed up to meet them and to wipe them away, but they just kept coming. His chest felt tight, the world was spinning, and his throat closed up, and he just couldn’t help but cry.

The world has no time for those who cry, and the world had no time for men like Dean Winchester, but he just couldn’t hold it all back anymore. The panic, the stress, the idea of dying and just the mere thought of Sam being here instead of him—

_Stop it, Dean, he thought, you’re grownup, don’t you dare cry, don’t you dare, stop it, stop it, stop it, you’re being a child…_

“Dean? Dean what’s wrong?”

And at this point, Dean found himself sobbing, choking on it, and he tried so hard to keep it all back, to force it down, but waves are not so easily suppressed.

“Cas, I’m just so glad,” Dean wept, trying to get some air in his burning lungs, “I’m so glad it’s not Sammy here. I’m so so glad that it’s no Sam sitting here, getting drunk to forget that he might not make it out alive. I’m so glad, Cas, I’m so glad…”

Cas made the “shhh” sound, like mother’s do with their infants, and stroked some of Dean’s hair behind his ear, fingers trailing to his neck. “It’s okay, Dean. We’re going to be okay.” 

“I’m so scared, though,” Dean admitted, still furiously trying to wipe away his tears, “What if we can’t find that door, what if they kill us, or kill you before we find it, what if—”

“Dean, I won’t let that happen,” Cas hushed, softly, “We’ll be okay, the two of us. We can get out. We can go home. It’ll work. It has to.”

Cas sat with Dean, just playing with his hair and with his hands, until Dean was able to calm himself down. It hurt to breathe and his lungs felt compressed and his head hurt the way it always did after crying, but he felt better.

Cas went to stand up. “I can get you some water—”

But Dean didn’t let him get far, grabbed his wrist, his words jumbled together. “No, please Cas, don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

Cas turned and kneeled in front of Dean, taking his hand. “Okay,” he said. He gave a small, gentle smile. “I won’t go anywhere. I’ll stay right here.”

“Castiel Novak,” Dean muttered, his bright green eyes watering.

Chuckling, Cas said, “Yeah, that’s me.”

“You have such a wonderful name. I could say it forever and not get sick of the way the letters sound on my mouth. I could say it forever and not get bored of it. Damn it, Cas, why do you gotta be so beautiful?”

Castiel’s heart stopped.

“What?”

_You are just so easy to fall in love with, Dean Winchester._

But in that moment, he didn’t get an answer.

Dean grabbed the loose ends of Cas’ tie, pulling him foreword suddenly, and locked their lips.

And Cas’ heart nearly exploded.

Dean felt him tense beneath his fingers, and began to wonder if maybe this was a bad idea, a bad plan and Cas really wasn’t into him, but the minute he thought that Cas relaxed under his grip, leaning into him slightly.

Man, did Cas taste good.

Dean wanted more of him, a lot more, wanted to know what every part of him felt like to touch, wanted to run his kisses up and down Cas’ body, but for right now, he settled for this mind blowing kiss between them, powerful enough to destroy entire stars.

For the first time in a long time, they felt alive.

And sparks flew.

Sparks flew at the end of the world.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's part two.
> 
> You guys have no idea how much I was blushing while writing their kiss, for all it's worth. I have no idea how my poor heart is gonna make it through the next chapter... *heavily fans self*
> 
> There is some credit to be given here, where credit it due.
> 
> First of all, to all the musical artists who I have referenced in this chapter: Elvis, Panic! At the Disco, The Goo Goo Dolls, Warrant, and the Beatles (as much as Dean thinks they're "sissies", I am quite fond of them myself.)
> 
> Secondly, to my friend Emily, who gave me the inspiration to write Cas' poem (promptly titled "This Is the Way the World Ends"), after she played and won an amazing round of Cards Against Humanity. Thanks, Emily.
> 
> Thank you all who have kept reading to get to this point, and I hope you keep reading to the points beyond this. Without you guys, the readers, this fic would have gone nowhere.
> 
> I do love comments, so if you have something to say about this instalment (good or bad, does not matter) I would love to hear it!
> 
> Until next time, where things might get a little... how do I put this?... hotter than usual?
> 
> -Marina


	14. Chapter 14

**Upon Stars & Oceans **

Somehow, they managed to get themselves back to the tower without any horrible incident.

They waved down a cab, practically dive-bombed into the back seat, and spent their whole ride just holding each other’s hand. Like kids on the playground. Dean sneaking in quick kisses, Castiel returning every single one of them. Dean’s lips had trailed down to Cas’ jaw, them to his neck, and it took all Cas had to keep himself from moaning in the back of the taxi.

The cab pulled over to let them out at the lobby entrance, and the two boys stumbled out, still half wasted off alcohol, fingers linked. The entire city was pretty much at that party, not planning on going home until the early hours of the morning, so the building was all theirs for tonight.

Just for tonight, the world was theirs to stand on, to conquer and overthrow. Just for tonight.

They reached the elevator, Dean lazily hitting the 1 button, and when the doors closed he had Cas against the glass wall, cupping his face, kissing him with a burning passion of a thousand suns. Cas’ hands found their way to Dean’s neck, trying to pull him closer, as if that were possible.

It didn’t take long for the doors to open again, and Dean was tempted to just slam every single button, have their ride last until morning. Cas led the way out down to his room, Dean trailing after him like a needy puppy, and when Cas took the key out of his pocket to unlock the door, Dean stood behind him, arms wrapped themselves around Cas’ torso, bodies pressed together, kisses planted beneath his ear, and all Cas wanted to do was to sink into them and have Dean take him right there in the hallway, but he restrained himself, just to get the door open and close and for them to practically topple inside. Cas began tearing Dean’s suit jacket from his shoulders and tossing it recklessly on the floor, his back against the wall again, Dean’s weight urged against him.

“Dean,” Cas huffed out the best he could, in between the interlocking of their lips. Dean let out a _hmm_ in response, hands working to remove the purple tie hanging around Cas’ chest. Cas couldn’t suppress a grin, fingers running through Dean’s hair, “Dean, why’re you doing this?”

Dean stopped nipping at Cas’ skin, and looked up at him, as though surprised at the question.

“I can’t help it, Cas,” he breathed, “I really can’t help it. You’re just amazing and I want every part of you so bad, every part of you to be loved. Are you okay with it?”

Their eyes meet, and Cas sees just how serious Dean is about all of this.

And then Cas realized just how serious _he_ was about all this.

“Oh, I’m more than okay with it,” he smiled and kissed Dean again.

Dean was gentle in taking off Cas’ clothes, moving smoothly in unbuttoning his dress shirt, hand grazing over his chest, and the other running softly over Cas’ stomach, making him shiver, lips rolling over him, forcing small gasps from his mouth.

Rather unexpectedly, Dean grabbed Cas and tossed him on the bed, Cas laughing all the while Dean landed on top of him, eyes lit up, one hand working away his own shirt buttons.

He was built, Cas had to admit. The coal mines had done his muscles a favour, still with a soft tummy, though, and Cas thought it was cute.

A necklace hung around Dean’s neck, with a gold face dangling from the black string. It was an odd piece of jewellery, craved almost to imitate an olden day god. Cas lifted a hand, and cradled it in between a thumb and forefinger, rubbing over it. Dean chuckled.

“Sammy gave it to me,” he whispered, and Cas looked up at him, met his gaze. “It was a reaping present… a going away present,” he added, a sad smile on his mouth. “Sam’s arrogant, somedays, but never ignorant. He knew that the people were going to write down his name. What he never saw coming was that I wouldn’t let them drag his ass into the arena. Not on my life.”

Then he looked back at Cas, his green eyes a bit more determined. “I’ve already lost people to the Games. Was close to losing Sam. I won’t lose you too.”

Dean kissed the top of Cas’ forehead, then on his nose before he worked his way back to his lips, gentle at first, then it turned fierce, Cas biting at his bottom lip.

Castiel’s hands wandered to Dean’s back, tracing little circles just below his neck, before sinking lower and making contact with jagged, alien ruts in his skin.

And then he remembered the scars.

They were healed now, no more blood seeping through, no more blood staining the bottom of showers red or dripping onto carpets. But they remained there.

_You cannot destroy me._

He let his fingers trace over the wounds, softly, and he felt Dean quiver slightly above him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and withdrew his hand, but Dean shook his head.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered out, brushing a thumb over Cas’ brow, smiling a him to show reassurance. “Just a rebel’s old scars. They don’t hurt anymore.” He paused for a second. “When you touch them like that, it’s almost like you erase them.”

Cas brought him closer, and Dean rested his head against Cas’ chest, just under his chin, breathing in sync with Cas’ heartbeat, lightly kissing the skin on top of it. Cas returned to drawing over the crude artwork engraved in Dean’s flesh, cooling whatever fire still burned in them, every little while a small shiver would run through Dean’s spine, and every time Cas would calm him with tender words.

“I can kiss them, if you want,” he mumbled, not really sure if he would be heard, and was rather surprised when Dean answered to that.

“Do you think you can?”

Dean sat up, linking his fingers behind his neck, and Cas sat behind him and put Dean between his legs. It almost appeared that Dean was surrendering himself to Cas, and Cas was willing to accept that.

The words still were intimidating, not as red as when the world first saw them. But aged. They reminded Castiel of a person, an old, bitter person that spewed their venom at everyone they saw, because everyone was wrong and had never seen the things the bitter person has seen, never experienced any of the horrors the bitter person has gone through.

The scars were wretched, a small, single act of defiance against the Capitol for all it was worth. Ugly scars that were spiteful, wanting to lash out, that just needed someone to see them for what they were before.

Cas grazed over them, first with his hands, and then he leaned forward to touch them to his lips, tracing over them with soft kisses, and Dean trembled from under them.

His wreaked body was healing itself with each touch.

An angel was fixing him. Making him pure again.

After Cas skimmed over the last letter, leaving Dean’s mind in a slighter state of peace, he breathed, “Thank you,” and Cas smiled.

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

Dean turned around, sitting now facing Cas, one hand reaching to caress his cheek, thumb lightly running over that healing mouth Cas possessed.

They sat there, quietly, hands feeling each other, feeling heartbeats and skin, without any hurry. They had all the time in the world. The whole night to waste away.

Then, Cas got an idea.

This idea formed a question on Cas’ tongue, one that he wanted to voice with a strong desire. It was a great idea, but he was nervous, too nervous to get it out. Apparently, Dean sensed this.

“What’s wrong?” he asked calmly, concern in his eyes. Cas sighed heavily, some embarrassment rising and his cheeks going red.

In the end, he planted his face in his hands and mumbled something inaudible, and Dean had to ask him repeat it, prying Cas’ hands away from his mouth. Dean held onto them.

“I just…” Cas started, “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

“C’mon, Cas, tell me. I won’t laugh, I promise.”

Dean had a pleading look that Cas couldn’t ignore. His heart was flying at six hundred miles an hour, ready to rupture from the anxiety. But he gave in.

In a very, very small voice, he exhaled, “Dean, I really want to have sex with you.”

Immediately his hands wrangled out of Dean’s and back over his face, where his cheeks were getting incredibly hot, absolutely terrified of what Dean might say. He didn’t laugh, like he promised, but Cas felt his eyes on him.

 _I messed it all up,_ Cas thought, and his chest felt tight, _He thinks I’m sort of freak or something. Fuck, I messed it all up—_

“Cas?”

Cas hesitated, then nodded in response.

“You still have your virginity, don’t you?”

Cas nodded again, and he felt like crying, even though Dean’s voice was kind and not condemning like he expected it to be.

All his life, and he thought that there was something wrong with him. His brothers would poke fun at him for not getting laid, Gabriel or Lucifer bring home a different girl every week, but at seventeen, the age where boys were supposed to feel a strong sex drive, Cas felt nothing.

No girls he felt attracted to, no guys, either.

Maybe he was broken. Flawed greatly in God’s design, a factory error.

But here was Dean, sitting in front of him, topless, and Cas had never had the urge to make love to anybody before now, and Cas thought that he screwed it all up, and he just wanted to cry,* because he wasn’t broken, but he screwed up the one chance he had to ask for it.

The thing is, he didn’t screw up.

Once again, Dean had to take Cas’ hands off, where he whipped the tears shining on his face away. “Hey, hey it’s okay,” he whispered, “That’s not a bad thing at all. Virginity is just a made up concept anyways to make guys and girls feel bad about themselves. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Cas took in a shaky breath. “It’s not just that, Dean. You’re the first person that I’ve ever felt this was about, and it scares me, and Dean…”

He looked back up at him, and Dean was still smiling.

“Cas,” Dean said in a low voice. “It’s okay. You’re okay Cas. There’s nothing wrong with you, I promise.”

And then, Cas really did start crying, falling into Dean and hugging him tightly, Dean holding him, kissed his cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Castiel.”

This was part of Castiel’s Miracle.

A boy, a favourite of God, was giving him what no other person could. And that was understanding.

And that was love.

“You really want me to be your first?”

Cas nodded furiously.

“Okay,” Dean kissed Cas again, and then again, and then again. “We’ll go slow. Anytime you want to stop, just say so, okay? I’m right here for you, here for you all the way.”

“I love you,” Cas stammered out, and Dean laughed.

And Cas wouldn’t understand the reference. In fact, nobody with a thousand miles of this place would understand the reference, but Dean cracked it anyway. 

“I know.”

They struggled to get their pants off, lips together for most of it, Dean whispering sweet and dirty things in Cas’ ear all the while.

“Fuck, Cas, you’re gorgeous,” was one, and Dean bit at his neck. Cas yelped, and didn’t want it to stop.

“You’re doing good,” Dean praised, “We’re gonna speed up a little.”

His hands traced down Cas’ torso, thumbs circling over his hip bones, and then a little bit lower, and Cas’ heart rate increased.

“There, nice and easy,” Dean muttered as he stroked Cas, simultaneously getting himself hard with his free hand.

“Dean,” Cas breathed out, some minutes later, and before Dean could respond, Cas had flipped him onto his back, Cas on top now, and Dean smirked.

“Feeling dominate tonight?”

Cas just put a finger lightly on Dean’s mouth, and slowly, a smile formed on his own. “Let me try something.”

And, very slowly, Cas shifted himself down Dean’s body, and Dean couldn’t help but grin.

Cas licked at his soft lower stomach, and Dean himself gasped, just a little, fingers gripping at the sheets just at the thought of Cas between his legs, and a moan like no other left him when Cas took his cock in his mouth.

For a virgin, his tongue could work magic.

Dean ran his fingers through Cas’ hair as he sucked him off, encouraging him, Cas taking him deeper and deeper, just a little bit at a time, occasionally pulling back to swirl the tip around before lunging right back in.

“Oh, Cas,” Dean mumbled, words coming out in a stammer, “Jesus…”

And, for a virgin, Cas could deep throat, and that sent Dean’s head into a wave of oblivion, whimpering for it, fucking Cas’ mouth, just on the edge of coming.

_(c’mon feel the noise)_

“Cas, Cas, let me fuck you… Let me do you justice, let me fuck you…”

Cas lifted his head, resting his chin on Dean’s hipbone with a cheeky grin on his face, planting kisses along Dean’s inner thighs. “Am I doing okay?” he asked, his blue eyes with a knowing look that he was.

Dean couldn’t remember the last time anyone had left him begging like that.

And he never would had guessed that Cas really was a kinky little bastard.

“You’re doing perfect.”

Dean pulled him into his lap, kissing him hard, tasting the inside of his mouth. “Did I taste good?” he whispered into Castiel’s ear, sucking at his earlobe, “Cock taste good for ya?”

Cas groaned against him, throwing his head back as Dean’s lips wandered to his collar bone, and there was sure to be a hickey there in the morning. “Just yours, Dean,” he panted, and he felt Dean laugh.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He lowered Cas to his back again, looking at those baby blues and the way they were just dilated with adrenaline, the innocence long gone at this point. Dean made a mental note to convince Cas to top one of these days.

“Ready to go all the way?” he asked, a little breathless. Cas hadn’t shown any signs of wanting to stop, but he had to make sure, not wanting to hurt him by accident.

But Cas smiled, eagerly, snarky. “I have no desire to go into that arena without knowing what this is like. What _you’re_ like.”

Dean kissed him, left it to linger.

He still went slow, as he promised, despite Castiel’s green lights, and started with his fingers.

Cas showed some discomfort, at first, but allowed Dean’s fingers to stretch him out, just about pleading for Dean to already just fuck him already, and after he rode three fingers, Dean’s heart was just about to burst from the need.

He kissed his angel, kissed him all over, in a wet desperate way, hands locking Cas’ wrists above his head.

“I love you,” he whispered to him softly.

And Cas whispered back, “I love you, too.”

And Dean thrusted into him, making Castiel cry out, fingers curled around the bedsheets.

Dean’s hips started slow, letting Cas get the feel of it, and once he got himself into a rhythm, he found Cas pushing up to meet him.

“C’mon, Dean, faster,” he whined, but Dean shushed him gently.

“Gotta go slow,” he says, chuckling.

But, gradually, he gave into Cas’ demands, thrusting harder, faster, and Cas found himself breathless as Dean fucked him senseless.

Dean bit his own lip. He felt that he was close to coming, but forced down the urge, focussing on getting Cas an orgasm first. His own needs could wait.

Cas was gasping, and Dean was smiling. “C’mon, baby,” he muttered sweetly, “You’re doing so good, taking it all.”

“Dean!” Cas cried out, “I-I’m gonna come, Dean…”

And less than two seconds later, he did, and Dean let loose his own release, filling Cas with a strange, warm sensation, and barely a moment later they found each other’s lips again, stickiness between them, plastered on their stomachs, and they didn’t care.

“You did good, Cas,” Dean muttered, breathing heavily against him, smiling, “You did so good for your first time. And Jesus, you’re confident, too.” He eyed Cas in a mock suspicion. “You sure you were a virgin?”

Cas chuckled. “I’m pretty sure you’re just saying that.”

But Dean shook his head. “No, I’m not,” he claimed, quietly. He kissed Cas again, and they held each other for a few minutes, breathing in one another. “Did you like it?” Dean asked him, slightly anxious at what his answer would be. But once again, Cas surprised him.

“Dean… it was amazing.” His eyes flickered with exhilaration. “Can we do it again?”

Of course they could. 

They could fuck until the universe ended and the world would be perfect.

And they would.

“Hey,” Dean whispered, “Maybe the two of us should jump in the shower.” He ran his hand through Cas’ dark hair.

Cas smiled, cheeks flushed. “Sorry about the mess.”

Dean leaned foreword. “I like it when things get a bit messy.” He winked, and Cas still found his heart fluttering with butterflies at the strings.

He just had sex with Dean Winchester, and still got butterflies at all the little things. He forgave himself for that, though.

Dean stood up to get the hot water going, and Cas followed, draping himself lazily with one of the sheets around his shoulders. They stood in the bathroom together, waited for the water to warm up, Dean testing it with the back of his hand every few seconds.

Cas stood back, and just admired Dean’s naked body, running his eyes up and down as subtly as he could make it. Dean was just so magnificent, confident, tall, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweat.

Cas shuffled over to him and ran his fingers down Dean’s back in little circles, and Dean smiled at him, took his hand and kissed the knuckles.

When the water temperature was finally right, Dean led Cas into the shower, where they both stood in the artificial rain with goofy grins on their faces, like the way new lovers always do. The water hit Cas’ skin, and he tilted his head back and made a small noise in the back of his throat.

“What’re you humming?” Dean raised an eyebrow, their fingers intertwining like clockwork.

“Just a song,” Cas answered happily, “An old song Gabe used to sing for me. It was a lullaby I think, one that District 1 carried for a long time. ‘100 Suns,’ was what it was called.”

Dean smiled at him softly. “Still know the words? Maybe you can sing it for me.”

Cas thought about it for a second, then shook his head. “I can’t sing very well.”

“Not a lot of people can,” Dean said, and Cas laughed. But Cas kept humming, and that was good enough for Dean, to listen to that low, lullaby song.

They kissed a lot, touched a lot, danced the best they could in the small space they shared. And it was truly a wonderful moment in time that Dean wanted to last forever. A long forever. Long enough that only the stars would remember them. Long enough that the oceans dried up and joined the sky in their love story.

The greatest love story ever told.

It was already late at night when they finished, the moon high above the earth when Dean glanced out the window again.

 _The city is ugly, but the night is beautiful,_ Dean thought to himself, and just about laughed as he stood in front of the window with a white towel wrapped around his waist. He figured he would have to head back to his room like this, and hopefully nobody would be in the elevators at this time in the morning. He wished he had left the rope down in Cas’ room.

“Dean?” Cas called from the bathroom, and Dean turned to see Cas leaning against the wall, also embraced with a towel, hair sticking up in all sorts of directions. “Do you… Do you want to stay for the night? Like, you don’t have to if you don’t want, it’s totally up to you, but I sort of don’t want to spend it alone now…”

And of course, neither did Dean.

It looked as if he worried for nothing.

The towels were left abandoned on the floor, and the two found themselves under the covers, Cas with his head resting under Dean’s chin and Dean holding Cas close to him, smelling the strawberries in his hair.

“Nice shampoo,” he said.

“Shut up,” Cas replied, but with some laughter.

They laid there for quite some time, taking pleasure in the comfortable silence, broken by the inhale and exhale of air.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“When we get out, we should go find Japan.”

Cas laughed. “I wouldn’t mind doing that at all.”

“We could go back to our home Districts first,” Dean said, in a dreamlike manner, “Go get Sam, Gabriel, whoever else you wanted to bring, and we could just take off. Leave this godforsaken place behind, never witnessing another Hunger Games.”

Cas sighed, gleefully. “I would love that.”

Dean kissed the top of Cas’ head. “I think I’m going to write you a song,” he said, “I don’t write them often, but I’d really, really like to write you one.”

Cas’ heart skipped a beat—or three—at Dean’s words.

“Really?” he asked in a hushed voice, “You’d do that for me?”

He felt Dean nod. “Hell yes I would,” he answered, “You’re the kind of person that deserves a song written about them. About your brilliant eyes and your poetry and how amazing you do in bed.”

Cas burst into a fit of giggles.

“Nah, maybe I’d leave that part out. But still, I’d write one.”

Cas buried his face into Dean’s neck. “I’d really like that,” he whispered, and Dean tightened his hold on him, afraid that if he let go, Cas would fly away, and he would be left empty and alone in this bed.

“I think I’m going to write a book,” Cas stated. “Maybe two books, actually. I’d do one and fill it with old poems I’ve thought of so then I wouldn’t grow old and forget them, and then I’d write one about us. About the Games, about our lives, about how we made it out alive. Team Free Will.”

He looked up at Dean. “I wouldn’t mind growing old with you,” he whispered.

Dean smiled and leaned in to kiss him again. Every time he did it felt like the first time. An explosion, a firecracker that sets off to break the darkness.

“Then let’s grow old together.”

Not long after that, Cas fell asleep.

It took some time before Dean could comfortably close his eyes, and not be haunted by the image of a broken angel at the foot of the tree,

_(you have to choose between the two people you love most in this world)_

or of blood in the snow.

That nightmare hadn’t bothered him in a few nights. But it had terrified him, shaken him, woke him up with a scream at his lips and sweat soaking his bedsheets.

His palms had been bleeding, his finger nails digging so far deep into them, so scared he wouldn’t wake up.

And he still struggled to know if it were really a dream at all. A dream or a warning.

There was the side of his mind that would reassure him, tell him that a monster possessing his brother and wings on Castiel weren’t logical, don’t happen in reality.

But there was the other side that held all the fear.

_(castiels plan can get you killed)_

He had to remind himself that this wasn’t Sammy talking. It was whatever demon that was flowering inside him, forcing devilish words from his mouth, bringing the knife down on the angel’s wings.

Dean had to make a choice, in the dream.

Sam or Cas.

And in the end, he would rather kill himself than lose either of them. Because the way you kill someone you love is quite simple. It’s that you simply don’t do it, because they are your everything. Your sun in the sky, and without them, there’s just darkness.

Oblivion.

He was scared of falling asleep, and waking up to find Cas had disappeared. And he didn’t want to disturb the peacefulness that was on his lover’s face, the relaxed, safe look he held.

When there’s no one else to talk to in a silent room, who can you turn to? 

Dean gave the room a glance, searching for something to offer him a distraction, something to take his doubts and fears off his mind.

And then he found something.

An old, frayed book laid on Cas’ bedside table, resting with it’s slight burnt pages, held closed by Cas’ glasses.

 _It’s a story,_ he remembered Cas saying, _not just a story, it was at one point a religion on this earth… It’s about a God who made this world to be perfect… Showed the world what redemption looked like._

_I found God burning in a wave of fire, Dean. And then I wanted to make myself good again._

Dean had a thought.

It was a ridiculous thought, something that he would never consider doing otherwise, but in a silent room… what else could you do.

So, he closed his eyes, took in a breath, and prayed.

_Are you there, God? It’s me: Dean Winchester._

He paused for a second, and waited, wondering if he would get an answer. And when the world still remained quiet, he decided he might as well continue.

_I don’t know if you’re actually out there, he said soundlessly, I don’t know if you exist, and I don’t really give a rat’s ass if you do or if you don’t. But if you do, I need you to hear me out, give me a hand down here._

He opened his eyes to look at Cas once again. Castiel, who was good, who ultimately was an innocent person who wanted nothing more than to escape the horror story he had been dumped into.

_His plan has to work, God. For his sake. I don’t want to choose between him or my brother, I want them both. I want them both and I want them alive and I want to protect them with everything I got._

Still, God had chosen not to speak up.

_But I’m praying right now. And I pray that Cas makes it out of this mess. I want to make it out of this mess. Please. If you’re out there, if you can hear me, give us that. That’s all I ask._

God didn’t reply, that night. But Dean didn’t mind.

_Take care of Sammy, you piece of shit._

Instead, he looked out the window, looked out at the stars that all seemed to be brighter than usual, flickering through the atmosphere.

Dean chuckled. “Maybe the city isn’t so bad, then. Just warped.”

And, not too long after that thought left his head, he fell asleep.

And no nightmares startled him tonight. Just Cas' occasional movements and mummers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This fic makes it obvious that Dean is bisexual, but hasn't exactly gone into depth about Cas. Well, for anyone wondering, Castiel is demisexual, or only feels romantic/sexual feelings towards those he has a strong bond to. 
> 
> I'm dreadfully sorry for my terrible attempt at smut. As you can probably tell, it's not my usual cup of tea, but I wanted to give it a go anyways.
> 
> If anyone wants to know why I didn't use the "underaged" archive warning, since Cas isn't of age yet, the age of consent in Alberta, Canada is 16. Plus, Cas is 17, and is able to make his own decisions about the matter.
> 
> I hope that I did okay with this chapter, I really tried my hardest, but smut is really tricky to write! Like how do people manage to write that stuff flawlessly? I was blushing the whole way through!
> 
> Thanks again for reading! I've been reading your guy's wonderful comments from the last chapter, and they've really been making me smile and giving me encouragement. 
> 
> Very excited to start the next chapter. We get to explore their darker sides...
> 
> -Marina


	15. Chapter 15

**Monster** _**.** _

_There’s something oddly wonderful about dreams. Something oddly and strangely wonderful about how you fall asleep, and your brain tells you a story, and dreams can mean nothing or everything and not make sense or make perfect sense. It’s amazing how they work, serenading you to sleep with some story, luring you in, and you sit there, desperate to know how it ends._

_And all these thoughts run through Dean Winchester’s head as the dreamscape forms around him._

_He’s knows right off the bat that it’s not real, and it isn’t because Sam’s wedding is too good to be true. No, it wasn’t the wedding that gave it away. He’s always been able to see Sam getting married to some beautiful girl. If it wasn’t for his mother sitting beside him in the front pew of the church, he may have even believed it._

_He saw her in his dreams quite a bit. Each time it starts off the same way, Dean would turn to her, and say, “Hey, Mom,” with a sad smile on his face, and Mary would smile back through her blonde hair, and ask why Dean looked so sad. That’s always been the way they’ve greeted each other in this world. Dean’s very own paradise._

_The church is rather nice, Dean thinks, and he looks around to admire its craftsmanship. It has a high ceiling with a few aging chandeliers hanging, lit with real candles and flickering like the nighttime stars. The floor is furnished wood and smells faintly of a forest rain, which Dean inhales deeply, mixing it with the abundant daffodils and daisies and roses that flooded the alter and on the sides of the aisles. At the front there’s a large window, standing high, allowing precious and dusty sunlight to flood through, giving the room a welcoming glow. And the people, too. There are plenty of people here to see the wedding, and, Dean laughs, he recognizes each and every person. Sitting behind him is Ash, who has combed his messy mullet neat and wears a respectable shirt and pants, and balanced on his lap is little Gracie, who waves at Dean with her face beaming. Dean waves back. He sees Bobby, not too far away, lots of his co-workers from the mines, Garth at the piano (and he can’t help but to feel a twinge of jealousy there), and there’s Ellen and Chuck and Charlie lined up with their backs against the far wall. Ellen’s crossing her arms, grinning, Chuck seems uncomfortable, and Charlie is bouncing slightly like she’s very excited for this wedding. Dean catches their eyes, and waves, and they all wave back in return, Charlie more so than the rest of them. There’s nobody else from the Capitol._

_Sam stands up at the alter already, dressed in a finely pressed tuxedo and bow tie, fiddling with his hands, an anxious look on his face, like he’s having some trouble breathing. He looks older, too. Not the thirty-four year old version Dean encountered in his last nightmare, but younger. Twenty-two, Dean would guess. The hair was still out of control, and easily now, Sam’s a good three inches up on him._

_Dean chuckles under his breath and removes himself from his seat._

_“Hey,” he says to Sam, and Sam nearly jumps out of his skin, and Dean laughs. “Dude, calm down. It’s your wedding, not the end of the universe.”_

_Sam just sighs. “I know, I know,” he says in mumbles, “I’m just… It’s like going on a roller coaster.”_

_“Sam, I don’t even think you’ve ever been on a roller coaster. Hell,_ I  _haven’t been on a roller coaster!”_

_“It’s a metaphor, you jerk.”_

_“Bitch. Anyways, continue with your story. The roller coaster.”_

_Sam shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips. “When you’re a little kid, you really wanna go on the big one, the one with all the insane loops and turns and makes your stomach drop, but before you do, you get butterflies, and you’re worried the ride will break down underneath you. But once you finally go on it, work up the courage, it’s a sweet little adventure.” He turns to Dean. “That’s what this feels like. The moment before the first drop, when you’re still terrified that something could go wrong, that I might mess up.”_

_Sam takes a breath, and Dean can tell that there’s weight on his chest._

_“Wow,” Dean says, “Poetic.”_

_“Shut up,” mutters Sam, and he lightly punches Dean on the shoulder, Dean laughing._

_“But really, man,” Dean says, “You don’t have to be nervous about this. Like, it’s probably incredibly nerve racking, that’s the way weddings and marriage are. But life with that girl—“ he looks his brother in the eye, clasps his shoulder with one firm hand, “That’s gonna be the best damn thing to ever happen to you. Jess is gonna make you so fucking happy, and you won’t screw up. You’ll be a good husband.” Dean smiles. “A better one than I could ever be.”_

_Sam tossed his head back to laugh. “Dude, I cannot wait for you to get married,” he says, “Then that way I can make funny faces from the pews while you read your vows and watch you fumble…”_

_“That’s not cool!”_

_They stand together, laughing, like brothers do and like brothers should._

_And it’s all a dream._

_And Dean knows this. He can feel it. The sadness that is the dream and the sadness that it is not reality. But there’s happiness, too. And he doesn’t want that to disappear yet, doesn’t want to wake up just yet._

_Why is it the reality that seems so much darker than the dream?_

_But how dark is reality? Really, how black is it?_

_Dean has to admit, not all of it was darkness. And suddenly Dean’s eyes rush over the room, and they’re searching for something. Someone. And it’s not John, who’s face isn’t present in the crowd. It’s not his mother who sits smiling in front of him. It’s not his brother Sam who stand by his side, or Ellen who stands at the far wall._

_The church is missing someone. Someone very important to Dean._

_“What’re you looking for?” Sam asks, noticing Dean’s wandering glance._

_Dean doesn’t answer right away. He’s still scanning the faces, hoping that maybe he’s there, somewhere amongst the people, just hidden. Maybe he’s there…_

_“Nobody.” He says, quietly. “Just… Just an old friend.”_

_His heart feels wilted, a rose that never quite made it to blooming. It was silly to imagine that Cas would be somewhere in here._

_Disappointing._

_Sam had said he couldn't wait to see Dean get married. And Dean wishes that he could introduce him to the man he would be standing at the alter with next year._

_He loves Castiel so much._

_Here he is, in a room filled with people he cares about, and Castiel Novak is nowhere to be seen._

_But it’s a dream, isn’t it? What was that old saying about dreams?_

_As Dean goes to sit down, someone else walks through those big church doors. It’s not Jess, not just yet, but it’s another guest, dressed in a lovely black vest and a purple shirt and stripped tie. He looks slightly out of breath, as if he had been running to get here, and his dark hair sticks up at angles and his blue eyes shine like bright stars that never want to fade, never want to go out._

_He looks older, too. Less than ten years, maybe somewhere around twenty-four, twenty-five, but still as handsome and beautiful as he was when he was seventeen._

_And immediately, Dean’s smile ignites, and he finds himself walking towards Cas without even telling his legs to move, without thinking at all. He just needs to get to him, every cell in his body wants him to move and touch Cas, kiss Cas, hug him. Because now it was more than just a dream._

_This was Heaven._

_Cas sees Dean and waves, a little exhausted grin creeping up onto his mouth that soon melts away under the soft pressure of Dean’s kiss. Then he laughs. “What was that for?” he asks, smiling wide, and Dean shrugs his shoulders._

_“I thought you were gonna miss out on the wedding.”_

_Cas brushed his hand on Dean’s neck, fingers trailing up to caress his cheek. “You really are too worrisome,” he says, “Of course I’d be here. I know how much this means to you.”_

_Dean kisses him once more, a lovely, warm sensation spreading through him like wildfire, like fireworks. That’s the way he always wants to kiss Cas. With fireworks._

_He takes Cas’ hand in his own, and begins to lead him to where he had been sitting. It might be a dream, but that doesn’t mean that Dean at least can’t try and pretend that’s it’s real. He can fool himself, for a brief moment. Fool himself that everything is perfect. He can pretend that Cas is going to meet his mother, shake her hand and her tell him what a handsome fellow he is and for Cas to blush. For Dean to introduce Cas to Sam and then tell him during the after-wedding dance that he’s going to ask Cas to marry him and that Sam would hug his big brother and tell him how happy he was for him and for a moment, just a moment, Dean Winchester managed to tell a convincing lie._

_Just for a moment._

_But of course, all things come to an end._

_When Dean turns around, his heart nearly stops, and immediately his grip on Castiel’s hand tightens, making sure that he’s still there. Because suddenly, the church is very empty._

_Empty, and poorly lit, as though someone has blown out all the candles and put out the sun, for none of it’s light shine through the windows now._

_Dean glances around, in search of another person, but there’s no one left. Not Mary, not Ash or Gracie or Ellen or Chuck or Charlie or Bobby or Garth. Everyone just suddenly… vanished. And in their places lay a thick layer of dust that wasn’t there before. As if nobody had stepped into the little church in years._

_Something had gone terribly wrong. “Cas,” Dean swallows, “I want you to get out of here as fast as you can—”_

_The second the words leave Dean’s lips the wooden doors behind them crash shut, a thundering noise echoes throughout the room. Dean’s hand squeezing so tight he thinks he may break both of their wrists, and Cas is beside him, a flicker of hyper-awareness dancing in his eyes._

_“I wouldn’t leave you anyways,” Cas says, linking their fingers. And Dean’s startled heart seemed more relaxed, now._

_“He shouldn’t of come, Dean.”_

_There._

_There’s that voice again. The voice that is not like Sam’s. Darker, that sends shivers up Dean’s spine like lightening, electrocuting him, giving him heart attacks and brain failure and boiling his blood._

_Voice of God. Voice of the Devil._

_“Oh, Dean, it was going so well. Why did you bring him here?” It comes from the alter, this voice. It rings through the church as venom, darkening everything it touches. There’s a man standing up there, with his back turned, dressed in a plain, white suit, and black shoes, gleaming like midnight. The man has long hair that’s combed neatly, and it hangs past his ears._

_Oh, there’s something all to familiar with this man, Dean knows._

_The man turned now, pivoting on his heel. “You spoiled the wedding, big brother.”_

_There’s blood dripping from Sam’s eyes, and Dean’s too petrified to even scream. There’s blood in rivers, staining his cheeks, feeding into his twisted smile, soaking into the white collar._

_And, all at once, there’s a flash. There’s a flash of memory. It’s December 19th, and he’s walking through the woods with a rifle on his back. There’ s something crying out in the trees. A deer, a wounded deer… or was it an angel?_

_Dean steps in front of Cas, never letting go of his hand. “Dean, what’re—” But Dean just shushes him, making sure that he was protecting him._

_Sam makes a_ tsk _sound with his tongue repeatedly. “Oh, you think that I’m going to take him from you again, is that it? You think I’m going to snatch your lover away, whisk him off so I can engrave my blade in his back?” Sam smirks, then lets out a low chuckling. “Well, brother. That’s_ exactly _what I’m going to do.”_

_“You listen here, you bitch,” Dean hissed through his teeth, “You’re not laying a hand on him, and if you do, I’m gonna slit your throat.”_

_“Oh, but Dean,” Sam mocks pleading, “You wouldn’t kill little Sammy, would you?”_

_“That’s the thing,” Dean replies. “You see, fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice, still fucking shame one you for manipulating me and using my brother’s meat suit to trick me. I’m not stupid.”_

_Sam begins to laugh. It’s not the noisy kind of laughter, the kind that fills halls, the cheery and the evil alike. No. This was a silent kind of laughter, only visible through his grin and his shaking shoulders._

_“You’re so naive, Dean,” Sam spits, “So naive. You think that I’m the only one tricking you, when you don’t even realize that your lover can be using you. Maybe he’s needs a pawn to get him out of the Games.”_

_Dean snarls._

_“Taking that boy’s virginity means nothing, Dean. It’s all a ploy, all a plot. Meaningless sex won’t sway him—”_

_Dean turns and faces Cas, and Cas shakes his head, his eyes filling with water. “Dean, he’s lying. Please, believe me. I want you out, more than anything. Dean I love you, please believe me—”_

_It’s all a dream._

_But Dean forgets that, and takes Cas’ face in his hands._

_“I know, Cas,” he says, “I trust you so much, okay? I trust you, I love you. He’s not my brother.”_

_“Castiel is a liar, Dean!” Sam screams over the sound of a rising wind, stirring the dust up like a fog. “He’s going to get you slaughtered! His brother killed Benny and he’ll kill you too!”_

_Cas looks broken, now, shaking his head more, whispering, “No, no Dean he’s not Sam, he’s evil, Dean.” Tears start to stream down his face, and Dean feels helpless, and the only thing he can do is brush the tears away with a stroke of this thumb._

_“I know,” Dean reassures him, “Cas, look at me. I don’t believe him. I love you. I have faith in you. We’re going to escape that arena. Together. And I can’t blame you for Benny’s death. You are not your brother, Cas. You have empathy. I love you, I love you, I love you.”_

_He gave Cas a quick kiss before turning around. Sam looks furious, baring sharp teeth. The blood is drying on his skin, but now, his eyes have transformed into a haunting black ink. A long dagger sits in the palm of his hand, and he plays with it, tossing it back and foreword, and at one point throwing it up into the air and catching the blade instead of the handle. His fist tightens on it, and blood spurts onto the floor._

_“You’re making the wrong choice.”_

_“You’re not my brother. You don’t get to speak for him.”_

_Sam grins again, a forked tongue running over the blood on his mouth. “Oh, really.” His face flickers for a second. Static, and for a second, it changes before reverting back to it’s original host._

_But just for a second—_

_Sam laughs again, and the air turns cold. “Let’s see what baby Cassie says about this.” He lifts the dagger, and runs it over his tongue, a cut forming down the middle. “Let’s fight like men, angel. The monsters we really are.”_

_With a swift flick of his wrist he sends the knife flying, and Dean doesn’t have time to duck away from it’s trajectory, and the tip is going to sink itself right between his eyes, bury itself in his brain._

_But it doesn’t._

_Instead, a shadow passes over him, and he’s eclipsed in darkness._

_His heart thuds in his throat and blood pounds in his ears, and he feels as if he’s gone blind and deaf all at once, and that maybe the blade really did get him and this is just death that he’s feeling and that’s why everything is so terrifying. Everything’s so dark, with a shattering silence._

_But this is a dream._

_Dreams are not restricted by the rules of the universe, by rules of logic or of time. Dreams themselves are an entire different dimension._

_Anything can happen._

_The darkness lifts._

_Cas’ hand is resting on his left shoulder, right above the deltoid, and an uncomfortable heat was spreading through Dean’s shirt and onto his skin, burn, searing._

_“You will not touch him.”_

_Dean finds his voice, stuck in his throat. His heart skips serval beats, and he’s almost sure he’s suffering a heart attack from what his eyes are seeing._

_“Cas…” Dean stammers, “Cas, what the hell are those?”_

_It wasn’t darkness that saved Dean._

_It was black wings._

_Massive wings, that stretch from one side of the church to the other. Cas’ shirt hangs loosely around his arms and he tears it away. The wings had torn it in their ascend to protect Dean._

_Why does this seem too familiar?_

_Sam whistles. “Well, the big boy has come out to play.”_

_“You will not touch him,” Cas repeats, tone like ice._

_Another blade falls out from Sam’s sleeve, and he catches it, and it dances in the dim light. “Brother verses lover,” he says, “Fighting for the will of one man. Face it, Castiel,” Sam struts down the alter steps, a swagger in his step, “He’s mine. In the end he will always return to me, and you will be nothing more than dust in the wind.”_

_“Watch me!” Cas snaps, “I’ll save your brother. I’ll pull him out of there, I swear on it.”_

_“Oh, he can save himself,” Sam retorts, “Dean is the greatest man I’ve ever known. Second best hunter in 12, next to me.” He lifts the blade, points it at Cas. “He doesn’t need you, you filthy Career rat.”_

_Cas lunges at him, wings working up the dust into a whirl cloud of a storm, knocking the knife from Sam’s hand, and a strange, blue glow emits from his body._

_“Dean Winchester will be saved,” he hisses._

_“Cas, stop!” Dean cries out, “Cas please don’t do this! Cas!”_

_Cas turns to him, and the glowing quickly fades, and is replaced with Cas’ gentle sky blue eyes. Gentle, peaceful, innocent. The kind of eyes that made him an angel. A chandelier falls from the high ceiling, and the metal rings fracture against the wooden floor. The candles are still alight; dust catches flame, and a wall of fire rises between the two. Already it’s too hot for Dean to jump through to reach Cas, already his skin feels like he’s boiling and that he can’t breathe, but despite that he cries out: “Cas! Cas!” He chokes on the heat._

_All he can do now is watch._

_Dean stands, horrified as Sam swings his knife at Castiel, and Castiel deflecting each blow with difficultly, his wings struggling to fly away, feathers on fire._

_“Don’t touch him!” Cas screams, “Kill me, but don’t touch him!”_

_Sam laughs, boastfully, loudly this time. “Oh, I have ever intention of killing you, Castiel. I’m going to make sure my brother comes home safe.”_

_And for a brief second, Cas and Dean make eye contact through that inferno. The fire eats away at the church, but they take just one second to hold one another run their stares. Cas’ eyes look heavy. Sad._

_“Forgive me, Dean,” he whispers, and Dean hears him._

_Before Dean gets a chance to respond, to tell Cas that he would always, always, always forgive him, Cas takes Sam by the hair, pulling hard. Sam shrieks out in pain, arm still working to stab the angel, but Cas doesn’t give him the chance._

_Instead, his wings propel him to the window, and glass pieces soar, jagged and broken, melting almost instantly in mid air._

_This was a dream._

_Now all it had become was Hell._

_The dust catches flame, and the church hosts a fire that takes Dean’s breath from his lungs, and the fire runs into his chest and suffocates him._

_“Cas! Sam!”_

Dean jolted awake, shooting upright, gasping for air. It was freezing inside the room this morning, and when Dean looked, he noticed he had no blankets covering him. His shirt sat lazily on the floor, and the sheets underneath him were damp with sweat. He was shivering, rather uncontrollably, and he gritted his teeth in an attempt to stop his skin from crawling.

He buried his hands in his face, trying to calm his breathing, to get that rhythm back again. His heart flew in his chest, in a panicky rhythm. _It’s not a heart attack,_ he had to remind himself, _it was just a nightmare, you’re okay. You’re not having a heart attack, stop this, stop this—_

It was a dream. He knew it was only a dream, but they felt so real that it was getting so hard to tell reality and the dream apart.

Dean turned to his right, and saw Cas, snuggled in the quilts, still fast asleep. His body rose and fell with every soft breath he took in, and every now and then he would mumble some nonsense, none of it audible enough for Dean to understand it. Dean smiled, though, leaned over and kissed the skin of his lover’s neck gently, trying not to disturb him.

He had gotten into the habit of sneaking down to Cas’ room at night, now. For the past five, since their first together, Dean spent them down on the second floor, falling asleep next to the boy with the sky blue eyes. Sometimes Cas would read to him, sometimes they would tell stories or make love or just cuddle and hold hands until the sun came up. And then the day would start all over again, both of them waiting anxiously for night to fall.

Dean looked at the little digital clock on the bedside table, and the little green numbers read out 4:19. He had a few more hours before the start of the day.

Oh, today was a big day.

He looked back to Cas again. The boy was so peaceful when he slept. Not riddled with night terrors, like Dean, and Dean was so grateful. Cas didn’t deserve to be startled awake with dreams like those. The ones that hide in the back of your head, poking at your imagination and fuelling your worse fears. Forms paranoia, a hydra like creature that rears it’s ugly head. You could cut off its heads, only to watch in horror as more grew back.

Cas didn’t need to fight that monster.

Dean laid his head back on the pillow, eyes staring at the middle of Cas’ shoulder blades, muscles clearly displayed through his skin. He couldn’t get himself to look away.

Despite the recurring theme, Cas was no angel. No literally, anyways. Dean supposed that he was an angel, in almost every way imaginable, with the exception of wings.

Cas wasn’t really an angel.

And, before he could realize what he was doing, Dean found his fingers tracing Cas’ back. Searching, maybe. To make sure.

Cas didn’t even have a single scar on his back that might have suggested otherwise, and Dean sighed to himself.

The hydra was getting stronger, and he hated it.

A thought about jumping into the shower briefly crossed his mind. Being drenched in a cold sweat and sleeping in it wasn’t very desirable.

Careful to not make a sound, he snuck out of the bed and into the bathroom, hoping that the sound of rushing water wouldn’t wake Cas. He stood under the spray of hot water for God knows how long. Small streams trailed over his skin, cleansing him, almost ridding his mind of that dream.

_(castiel is a liar)_

Sam’s voice still remained in his head. A stupid, broken record that just wouldn’t come off the player, wouldn’t give up on making one more song, only for it to sound defective and dying.

_(his brother killed benny and he’ll kill you too)_

And the thing that Dean couldn’t understand was _why_.

 _Why_ was the Sam in his head telling him all of this? The Sam he knew, the one sitting back home in 12, fourteen years old, probably worried sick and praying and crying and wondering when his big brother would come home, that Sam wouldn’t care what kind of alliances Dean made during the Games. The only thing that would matter was if he got out in one piece.

Sammy would tell him to trust his instincts, to trust Cas.

And then Dean had the sickening thought that maybe it wasn’t Dream Sam at all telling him these things. Maybe it was just his subconscious. Maybe it was all him.

Maybe he was _doubting_ Castiel…

No, but that couldn’t be true.

It wasn’t true.

They’ve only known each other for s short amount of time, they both knew that. But Dean trusted Cas with his life. Life, heart, soul, Cas could have it all. The last time Dean had felt this was about anyone was his ex-girlfriend Lisa, whom he had sworn he was going to marry one day. She had gotten into an accident that scrambled her memory, and she never remembered him.

The last time, he knew he was in love.

And it was even more with Cas. Strong. Like waves striking a beach, these feelings were strong and powerful and evermore real.

And Dean wasn’t going to leave that arena without Cas by his side. He wasn’t going to have no Romeo and Juliet ending, either.

It was Cas or nothing.

He heard the door creak open.

“Dean?” Cas mumbled, his sleepy voice muffled by the rush of water and by the shower curtain, “Dean, are you in here?”

Dean pulled back the curtain, and a smile rose up on his lips at the site of Cas leaning against the doorframe, hands rubbing at his tired eyes, in nothing but his boxers. Dark hair stuck up all over the place, a cow-licked piece hanging off his forehead.

“Hey, Cas,” he replied softly. “Sorry, I probably woke you. Go back to bed, I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”

Cas nodded, squinting against the wave of the bathroom light, then exited as Dean told him.

“Dork,” Dean said to himself.

The shower was off soon enough, and Dean put back on the sweats he slept in and fetched his shirt from the bedroom floor. Cas sat up in the bed, and he had reorganized the sheets so that they were evenly spread out now. Dean smiled at him, and Cas attempted to return it, but there was slight worry in his eyes.

“Dean, are you alright?” Cas asked as Dean got under the covers with him, pulling him close to his chest. Cas rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, humming some tune, and Dean felt the rhythm vibrate through his bones in a calming sort of wave.

“Yeah,” Dean answered, “Yeah, it’s good.”

But he wasn’t really too sure of it himself. Maybe he was lying, and maybe he was trying too hard to believe it.

Cas seemed to sense this. “Dean, if something’s bothering you, you can tell me. I’ll listen.”

Dean didn’t say anything right away. He let the early morning moment draw out, his thumb circling over Cas’ bicep, breathing slowly, wondering.

Maybe he should just come out and say that it was nightmares.

Nightmares about his brother, nightmares about Cas, in scenarios that are in no way possible. Nightmares about Sam screaming that Cas wasn’t to be trusted, about Cas being a wounded angel out in the snow, or protecting him in a burning church.

Maybe he could just come out and say that it was haunting him. And that he couldn’t understand why he was having these twisted dreams that slithered and bit at him in his sleep.

Maybe he could even tell Cas, that in the church, Sam’s face had briefly flickered to that of Lucifer’s…

But he didn’t.

“Nah,” he whispered, and kissed Cas’ forehead. “There’s nothing. Just… ridiculous dreams that don’t really make sense, that’s all.”

And he knew that Cas didn’t believe him. He expected that there would be some questions, like _what kind of dreams? or what were they about?_ or something, but Cas didn’t full fill those expectations.

“I’ll always listen, Dean,” he whispered back, kindness seeping through his words, “No matter what you have to say…”

They laid there in their little moment for a while. Just for a little while.

“Thanks, Cas.”

Cas rolled over, and Dean took the opportunity to shuffle up behind him, a strong arm wrapping around Cas’ waist, pulling him close, pressing their bodies together like the thin pages of a book. A story far from perfect, but still wonderful. It was wonderful and made their tragedy more bearable. A story that Dean would read over and over again.

He kissed Cas’ neck, feeling Cas shiver in his hold. Dean grinned against his skin. “Get some sleep,” he muttered, “It’s Judgement Day tomorrow.”

“Judgement Day?” Cas repeated, giving a quick laugh. “Dean, don’t you think that’s a bit overdramatic?”

“Shut up. I like being overdramatic sometimes.” Dean kicked at the back of Cas’ legs and Cas laughed. “But it fits. Get some shut eye, you gotta impress the hell out of them for me.”

He waited until Cas drifted off to sleep again, waited for the steadiness of his breathing and the constant beat of his heart, before he let his eyes flutter shut, hoping that the nightmares this time would keep themselves at bay.

***

Judgement Day.

That wasn’t an over exaggeration, despite what Castiel had told him. It was the day that the Gamemakers assess their skills and mark them. Depending on how high their mark, on a scale from 1 to 12, then that meant more sponsors, and more popularity. It meant a chance at survival in the arena.

So. Judgement Day.

The tributes all sat in their training outfits, all in one room, sitting on hard benches. Dean was seated next to Becky, and she was fiddling with her hands, anxiety sketched out all over her face. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail today.

Dean didn’t say anything to her. Just took her hand, felt it shake in his like a butterfly with broken wings.

Cas sat at another bench across the small room, looking seemingly calm, and every now and then he and Dean would hold eye contact before breaking away. Dean wanted to walk over to him, talk to him, brush a hand over his cheek and wink at him and calm both of their nerves, his own nerves, but he took the urge and shoved it down. They couldn’t do that. They would draw to much unneeded attention towards their relationship, and both tributes and the Capitol would know too much. If people like the Gamemakers, or people like Crowley found out, then that would put him and Cas in danger, at a disadvantage.

But despite all of that, Dean still wanted to.

But for now, just meeting Cas’ eyes would have todo. Meeting in them, and take a moment to drown in them.

The room was relatively quiet, a low mummer was spread through, touching all the walls, and was soon interrupted by the sound of an intercom turning on, and a woman’s voice ruptured whatever peace remained. The monotone wavelengths made Dean wince and grit his teeth:

_“May District One tribute, Castiel Novak, please come to the staging area?”_

Instinctively, Dean’s eyes wandered to the dark haired boy. Cas didn’t look fazed by the call of his name, didn’t seem shaken. Just took a breath, stood up, and rubbed at the back of his neck momentarily.

Dean wanted to know what he was thinking, what was running around in that beautiful mind of his. If he was worried, nervous. If he was confident, if he knew what he was going to do to stun the Gamemakers to hell. Dean wanted to make sure that Cas, his Cas, the boy who was a virgin before the Games, the boy who could pull a Robin Hood and split arrows down the middle, was okay.

Cas turned to leave the room. There was hesitation in his movements, as if unsure about something.

Maybe wondering if any of this was really worth it.

“ _Castiel Novak to the staging area.”_

“Hey!” Dean called after him, and Cas turned, a bit of surprise in his expression. Dean gave him a slight upturn of his lips.

“Good luck out there.” he said.

Cas smiled back. “Thank you,” he replied, “You too,” and Dean felt his heart melt a little.

And Cas turned and left, and suddenly, the atmosphere was a bit darker. A bit colder, without the boy’s warmth.

Cas would do great. He was a warrior, born and raised for a battle that maybe he wasn’t designed to fight, but here he was, fighting the battle anyways. At least, the world thought he was.

Dean didn’t catch himself in time to stop praying, and almost laughed. Ever since meeting Cas and learning about that book he always carried with him, it was like he had somewhat became a believer.

His hold on Becky’s hand tightened slightly.

***

It was a wide open space, and immediately Castiel found that intimidating. Dangerous. Like snipers were up in the rafters, scopes aimed at him, fingers heavy on the trigger. He supposed that there were snipers in the room with him. Snipers and wolves, with slobber dribbling down their chins, anxious for the bloodlust they would strangle out of children.

Or maybe it was more the sea. The way the cold, stale weight of the air rested on his shoulders. A small cloud emerged from his lips when he breathed. There was the strange sense of being underwater, a hundred pounds of tidal waves crashing over top of him in a way that he couldn’t really describe.

Perhaps this place wasn’t that of snipers and wolves.

Something darker. Something alien.

The Gamemakers stood elevated behind a plain of glass, and he suspected that it was bulletproof in case if a tribute decided to go rogue, which had happened a few times in past Games, and was always reported on Panem’s national news. Those really were the stories that Cas loved the most. He liked the idea of a rebel with a little too much fire in them. Never once did one of those child anarchists win the Games. Cas kept track, just in case, and it was always the same. The Gamemakers usually sent something after them and they would be slaughtered in the first few days, to his dismay. Maybe one day they would get cocky enough, remove the glass, and some lucky bastard will get their shot. Graze them, just enough to make on of them bleed for all of their troubles. Maybe one day that bastard would even come out as Victor.

Cas chuckled at the thought, wishing that he could have that shot. Just to watch them jump.

“Is there something funny, Mr. Novak?”

Cas looked up, eyes greeting those of the speaker, and an odd shiver flew down his spine. It wiped the grin off his face.

Standing behind the panel, a tall man stood, dressed head to toe in a finely pressed, black tailored suit. His hair had been dyed a glistening sliver, and stood upright almost unnaturally. Castiel was used to seeing oddities like that in the Capitol’s people, but the thing that sort of shook him a little more than he would have liked were this man’s eyes.

They glowed yellow. Lighthouses, scouting, not leading the ship to shore but smashing it into the rocks. Sending down the sailors.

Toxic radiation.

The man looked upon Cas, hands behind his back, an attentive glare that made Cas feel like he was a cat facing down a hawk. This man waited for an answer from the boy, a sort of… _knowing_ grin on his face.

But Cas wouldn’t allow for himself to be dehumanized, and gave a smile back.

“Nothing,” he said, calmly, casually, “There’s nothing funny at all.”

Yellow Eyes clicked his tongue. “There better well not be, child,” he retorted, “The youngest brother of Lucifer Novak should be well aware about the state of our union, and should know very well the seriousness of it.”

Cas tensed at the mention of Lucy, shoulders drawing back slightly, stiffening. There was nothing quite like having expectations laid out in front of him due to having Lucy raise a very high bar. Not that Cas wanted to beat Lucifer at his own game, to be better than him. There was no desire in Castiel’s heart for that. No desire for the fame, no need or want for being a gloried murderer. He just wanted exactly the opposite.

“Well, then you’re in for a surprise, because I am nothing like my brother.”

The man gave one last stare at him, and Cas didn’t break eye contact. He held it there, put as much ice into it as he could. He wasn’t willing to let Yellow Eyes win this small victory over him.

“Mr. Novak,” the man continued on, “We want you to demonstrate your… special skills, for us. On your right there’s a table with weapons and materials. On your left, there’s a range of dummies. What you do with these materials is up to you. The possibilities are endless.” His words reminded Cas of a snake hissing through long fangs.

He spoke the truth, though. Cas glanced at it through the corners of his eye. There was a long table, and immediately he sought out a bow and a quiver stuffed with arrows. Stood against the opposing wall lay a good handful of human mannequins, painted white.

Cas took in a deep breath.

“You have fifteen minutes. Time starts now.”

He set off to the far wall.

Without too much grace, he stole three of the human figures, dragging them by their thin wrists to the centre of the gym, standing them up all shoulder to shoulder, about a foot and a half between each. Cas imagined them like soldiers, all in line, and he was their commander, ultimately leading them into a battle they wouldn’t come out of. Then he went over to the weapons table, ignoring the questioning glances the Gamemakers were giving at him, trying to figure out what he was up to.

The bow was snatched up in his hand, it’s light weight feeling familiar in the grasp of his fingers, and he emptied the quiver. He held about five arrows with bow hand. A knife landed it’s place in his belt after a few seconds consideration, and quickly, his eyes scanned the table, looking for one last object, swallowing hard when he couldn’t find it, but the red paint gave away it’s position and Cas snatched the small item away, tucking it close to the dagger.

He took a deep breath.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Here he was. In the scope, under silent fire.

_(forgive me father)_

The wolves waited. He could feel their eyes on him, the yellow ones searing into the back of his head. And Cas wondered, for a split second, if they were thinking of him as a lamb.

If he wasn’t like Lucifer, who was a victor, a cold blooded killer with no remorse, no guilt, then what was Castiel in comparison? A lamb, just begging to be devoured?

_I am not like my brother._

_(forgive me father for i have sinned)_

_I’m not my brother. I am Castiel and I am neither lamb nor killer._

And, swiftly, silently, he drew one of the arrows in his right hand, knocking it on the string, the feathers brushing the webbing of his fingers, making them itch. He kept his eyes low, focussing on the floor. Fog rose from his mouth, and he closed his eyes. Just for one moment.

_What I am is a monster who refuses to be._

He turned, drew back the string. His hand barely had enough time to rest against his jaw before he let one arrow fly, feathers nothing but a blur of colour as they buried itself into the first body, with a sickening sound that Cas blocked out with the adrenaline pumping into his ears. And before the first one landed, he had fired his second and third, no time in between. Rapid like gunfire, almost too quick for the eye to see, the arrows went like bullets.

One in the throat, two in the chest and the last two landing in the lower stomach. One of which was split down the centre. Each with a force strong enough that their heads prodded out the other side.

The Gamemakers began to clap, but Cas didn’t take notice. He wasn’t finished yet.

The dagger he pulled from his belt, twirled it in his hand before taking it by the tip of the blade and tossing in, head over hilt at the second dummy. It struck home in the hollow of its neck.

_I won’t become your favourite assassin. That’s not who I am._

Taking his time, knowing he had lots of it left, he walked to the last of the standing men. The mannequins weren’t alive. Despite that, Castiel whispered to this last one, in a calm voice, in a gentle voice, as if it could hear him.

“I am sorry.”

The lighter was now in his palm, coated in a thin layer of sweat. Clicked it once, twice, and the smallest flame erupted.

“I’m so sorry.”

And he dropped the lighter, and watched as that baby flame grew into a human sized bonfire, scorching the world around him in a heat hot enough to ignite hell.

Castiel watched as the figurine melted, turned black and slowly became a puddle of wax at his feet. And then he turned his eyes to the Gamemakers, where all but Yellow Eyes had their jaws dropped.

What a show he must have put on.

He spread his arms wide, a small, sarcastic grin on his face, and gave a bow.

“I am not my brother,” he says, steady, determined. “Don’t you fucking dare think that we are the same.”

And, without another word, he walked out the door, completely forgetting that the bow was still slung across his shoulders. They would replace it for when Anna walked in, and Castiel could care less. Someone would come and fetch it from him later.

Before the doors closed on him, he thought he caught wind on a word, spoken by the Yellow Eyed man.

“…psychopath.”

And Castiel chuckled to himself.

They didn’t get it.

They didn’t understand that a monster is not a monster when they are capable of love. When they are capable of escaping the cage, not wishing to hurt anybody.

They didn’t understand.

The door closed behind him, and he walked down the hall, hands feeling numb and head throbbing.

_(its possible theres a little monster in all of us)_

Cas was grateful. Extremely grateful, that these sessions were private. Not filmed on camera or recorded for everyone to see.

He hoped that Dean would never have to see that side of him. He hoped that he wouldn’t be driven to become like that.

And more than anything, Cas prayed.

 _Please let there be a way out,_ he spoke silently, _please let there be a way out. I don’t want to kill Dean, I don’t want to kill him. I love him, please don’t put me in the position that I have to kill him, let me die instead, let me save him, oh God let there be a way out, tell me I'm not wrong and let there be freedom..._

***

_“May District Eleven tribute—”_

Dean blocked her name out. It wasn’t important.

_“—please come to the staging area. District Eleven tribute—“_

The girl stood up, hands flattening at her training outfit, maybe to wipe the sweat off her palms. She stood still, breathing in slowly, until the intercom called her to the staging area one more time. She’s been repeating this routine since 11’s boy was called out. Wiping the sweat off. Breathing slowly. She exited, not even glancing at either Becky or Dean. Not that Dean cared. He’s been there all day, waiting, watching as kids got up, one by one to face their judgement. It seemed like forever since he shouted out that last good luck to Cas, watched that boy smile.

Dean wondered how he did, if he blew their minds out of the water, and at the same time he had absolutely no doubt that he did. Cas was capable of amazing things, even if he didn’t look it. Although, he was a bit worried. When Cas came back through the doors, he just stared straight ahead, and he still had a bow with him. He didn’t even look at Dean, not even for a second. Just walked out.

The minute the girl left the room and the sliding doors shut behind her, Becky started to hyperventilate, panic in her eyes, and Dean kneeled in front of her quickly, still holding her hand.

“Hey, Becks, look at me, it’s okay,” Dean whispered to her, hands on her shoulders now, holding her stationary, “Becky, you’re gonna be fine.”

But tears were already running, and she shook her head viciously. “I’m going to do so bad,” she said, voice trembling, “I’ll do so bad, Bobby will be so disappointed even after all the work we did trying to help me, I’m so scared, _I’m so scared…_ ”

Dean waited for a minute, waited for her to regain herself, bringing her through the “inhale, exhale” drill, waited until she was calm again.

“Becky,” Dean started, “It’s going to be fine. Bobby won’t be disappointed. You’ll make him very proud after all the way you’ve came.” He brushed a tear from her cheek, smiled at her. “Just give it your best. That’s all I can tell you.”

He stole a glance over his shoulder once, gave the room a once over, to really make sure that they were alone, really alone, with no cameras or guards to eavesdrop in on their conversation.

Even then, Dean kept his voice low, just in case.

Paranoia has its perks, somedays.

“Becky, you have to listen carefully to me, okay?” he muttered to her, leaning in. “And what I tell you, you cannot, absolutely _cannot_ repeat to anyone else. Alright?”

Becky stared at him with dumb folded eyes, but nodded, listening attentively. “What if I told you that maybe there was a way to get out of the arena?” Dean asked, “Would you be interested in wanting to try and escape?”

Becky’s mouth slowly fell open, her eyes getting even wider, and Dean wasn’t sure how that was possible. “W-what?” was all she could get out, “You mean… you mean there’s a way?”

“A friend has it all figured out. I can’t explain much, I’ll tell you the rest tonight, but Becky, there’s a way. We can be free, we don’t have to die in there. Do you want in?”

Just as she was about to answer, the monotone lady came back on line, blaring words that Dean was dreading to hear.

_“May District Twelve tribute Dean Winchester, please come to the staging area?”_

He sighed, closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, he rested a hand on Becky’s arm, and gave her one more smile. “Think it over, alright?”

_“Dean Winchester to the staging area.”_

“Don’t tell anyone. Consider it. And Becky, don’t worry about what the Gamemakers think. Just do whatever you can.”

He stood up, an she waved at him. He waved back, and walked through the door.

The chill of the gym air flew down his spine, sending a shiver through his body. He was ready for this, knew his plan, but was only concerned about executing it poorly, after waiting so long for his turn to come. It’s been a few hours since his mind has been so clear.

And he wondered what Cas thought as he walked onto the chessboard.

Because what Dean was thinking was that it was like having the mountain ranges rise up all at once. The air became thin. Freezing. Not on a summit, but in the mountain shadow, and immediately, Dean hated it.

There were the Gamemakers, all behind their protective shield. A few of them to Dean’s eyes appeared slightly tipsy, wine glasses in hand. It reminded him of John.

 _Except the Gamemakers won’t beat my ass when I mess up,_ he thought. _They’ll just kill me outright._

Although, there was one without that glass in hand, without the red in his cheeks. No. He stood with his hands in his pants pockets, and yellow eyes piercing into Dean’s head, grinning.

“Ah, Dean Winchester,” this man proclaimed, squatting down close to the glass as if to get a better look, “The infamous escape artist. The boy with the rebellion sliced into his back.” He chuckled. “There’s been plenty of gossip about you.”

Dean’s ears perked up, and he gave the Gamemarker a smirk. “The Escape Artist?” he repeated, letting the title roll of his tongue. “So. Is that what they’re calling me now?” He laughed, tossing his head back dramatically. Cas was right. Dean played well in the dramatics of life.

“Got myself a nickname,” he muttered, but making sure he was heard. He turned his gaze back to the Yellow Eyed Man, smiling slyly as they made eye contact. “What do they call you?”

The man seemed to hesitate in the question, not letting their staring contest end.

“Cocky one, aren’t you?”

Dean shrugged.

“Azazel,” he said. “Head of the Gamemaker committee, if you were wondering. Anymore questions before you start?”

“Off the top of my head? Except if you enjoy killing children for a living?”

Azazel grinned, the yellow glowing in the strangest way. “I like you, kid,” he said, “I like you a lot. Casual. Doesn’t take life to serious. Not like that Novak kid. Very defensive, that one.”

Dean suppressed his smile. Good to know that Cas pissed them off. _That’s my boy_.

He went through the instructions with Dean, and once he started the time, Dean wasted no time at all in going to the weapons table, seeking out a hatchet and gripping its handle, and an unloaded pistol, which he took and inserted a full clip, all with one hand. The gun got tucked into the waist band of his pants, and then he set off to collect a mannequin. Half carrying, half dragging the limp dummy across the floor, he set it up in what he estimated to be the centre of the floor. Then he turned and walked a good twenty five paces out, the axe weighed heavily in his hand.

He spun the weapon in his hand once.

 _Your technique is weak,_ Cas had once told him. And Dean felt his lips turn upward.

He took it by the end of the handle, and whipped it.

As it spun through the air, blade over wood, Dean didn’t take the time to watch it fly. Instead he pulled out the pistol, held it steady with both hands, and fired. Round after round in quick succession, the recoil beating into his palms in a song that he loved to listen to.

And by the time the axe made it’s decent into the mannequins chest, six bullet holes were visible through its head.

Still smoking.

Like a classic movie star, he twirled the gun in his hand once before tucking it in his waist band once again. He’d never tried that before. The gun and axe combination, it was just something he thought of while waiting his turn. It actually surprised him that it even worked.

A gleaming pride in his eyes, he turned to the Gamemakers, almost expecting for them to not be paying attention, for their eyes to be on bottles of alcohol and their minds to fuzzy and drunk to care, but Dean was wrong. All eyes were on him, and even a few open jaws. He took note that some wine had spilt onto the floor.

The only one who didn’t seem impressed was Azazel. His eyes were dull, face like stone, but his hands did move to clap.

“Well done, Mr. Winchester,” he said, “Well done.” His voice seemed rather monotone to Dean, and he was determined to change that and shoot his brains out.

“Well, then you’ll be glad to know that I’m not done yet.” He straightened his back slightly, feeling a creak in his spine as he did. “Any chance I can request a sparring partner?”

Even from where Dean was standing, he could spot the confusion in all of their eyes. Maybe it was an unusual request, and maybe he was the first to ever make it. For a moment, he began to think that they were going to deny him one, but Azazel turned and spoke quietly to the rest of the Gamemakers. One nodded and left the glass room.

“You’ll get what you wish,” Azazel commented. “In the meantime, sit back. Have a time of reflection.”

“You’re kidding, right?” 

Azazel didn’t answer that. Just grinned like he knew everything.

And Dean _really_ hated that. Made him feel like a zoo animal.

A door on the far side of the room opened, and in walked a man, whom Dean immediately sized up. The man was young, probably at best in his mid twenties, blond hair cut short, and a strange tribal tattoo running down his left arm, coating the thick muscles in black. He appeared average, healthy. Not incredibly happy looking, although who could blame him? He was just asked to take on an arrogant, son-of-a-bitch teenager in a sparring match.

 _Not a bad looking dude,_ Dean thought to himself, _I won’t mind punching him._

“Mr. Winchester, this is Gadreel,” Azazel introduced, “He’s one of the servants that works in the tower who is trained very well in the martial arts. We figured you would want somewhat of a challenge.”

Dean flashed him a grin. “Nice to meet you.”

Gadreel didn’t reply, just nodded.

“Guess you don’t talk much.”

Gadreel grunted, shook his head.

They kept their distance, and already, they had began to circle each other, Dean allowing his hands to relax at his sides, but his kept shoulders tense. This wasn’t like taking on Sam or Cas, where he had some idea of their fighting style. This was new. Foreign and unpredictable, and Dean got a certain thrill off of it. They did this for some time, just observing, waiting each other out, wondering who was going to be the first to strike.

Gadreel moved quickly, suddenly, his leg flying up in a crescent kick that caught Dean by surprise, and he barely ducked out of the way, a current of air whipping through his hair. Dean whistled.

“Nice, nice,” he said, laughing, “Not bad.” He threw a hook punch and landed it on the other man’s cheek, and Dean lavished in the sound of skin hitting skin. He wasted no time in throwing out a kick and connecting it into Gadreel’s stomach.

It went back and forth for a while, Dean making points but also getting his fair share of points scored on him. When Gadreel did make contact with Dean, it hurt like hell, nowhere near as hard as Sam or Cas would hit him. Knuckles scrapped his lip, and Dean tasted blood, his head pounding like inner thunder.

Gadreel was a difficult opponent. Strong, swift, and extremely patient at that. Sam wasn’t like that, and it made Dean uncomfortable just how little Gadreel seemed willing to attack. Sam would be trying to tackle him to the ground already.

“Thirty seconds,” Azazel announced, and Dean realized he had to act now or forever hold his peace.

So, he waited until Gadreel threw a punch, and waited for his centre of balance to just tip enough for Dean to bring him down.

He started with a block, and ended with his foot in his opponent’s knee. A sickening crack was heard, and Gadreel screamed. Dean froze.

He didn’t mean to make such a strong kick, he was just aiming to take Gadreel down to the floor, but that really wasn’t what threw him off.

It was when Gadreel screamed, and Dean saw that he didn’t have a tongue.

The man collapsed, clutching his leg, whimpering. Dean stood very still, and the room was very quiet. Another round of applause was heard.

“Excellent,” Azazel commented. “Excellent. Wonderful skills, Mr. Winchester. You are free to leave now.”

But Dean couldn’t take his eyes off the other fighter.

No tongue, and now a shattered knee.

He bent down towards him. “Hey, man, do you need help?” Dean offered a hand. Gadreel looked at it hesitantly, but Dean smiled. “It’s okay. I’m not going to fight you anymore. It’s over.”

But Gadreel just shook his head, not meeting Dean’s eyes. So Dean turned to the Gamemakers. “He needs a doctor,” he told them, squatting down, “He needs help.”

None of the Gamemakers said a word to him. They chatted amongst themselves, paying no mind to the man with the broken knee or the man trying to get him some attention.

So, Dean what he did best when he was around drunk, middle aged men.

He did what he did best when he was being ignored.

He got angry.

“Hey!” he shouted, “I said he needs help here! Hey!”

When he finally grabbed their attention, they only looked at him with dumb, dull eyes. All except for Azazel. The yellow glow just ripped through his soul instead.

“Oh, Dean Winchester,” the man spoke, softly, yet without mercy, “He’s an Avox. Leave him be. Someone will be along to execute him shortly. People like him are very replaceable.”

Dean just about choked on what he was told. He knew that the Capitol people—especially the Gamemakers—were playful killers. Children who took the concept of death and made it a game. But he never knew they were sadistic. “Do you not care that he’s hurt? That maybe—”

“Mr. Winchester, you’re time is up,” snapped the Head Gamemaker, “Now unless you want us to start docking points for going over your limit, then feel free to stay.”

“You can’t just kill him for doing what he was told!”

“And why do you care about a lowly servant so much?”

Dean didn’t answer. Inside his head, a storm was brewing.

 _Because he’s human,_ he wanted to say.

“Out, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean wanted to scream. He wanted to yell and swear and make a fuss until they did something to help the poor guy. He had his tongue cut out, he couldn’t speak for himself. He looked back at Gadreel, then back at the Gamemakers.

_Because he’s human, you son of a bitch! Because he’s a person and he shouldn’t have to die just because I beat him in a dumb match!_

And then, Dean turned to leave.

Not before remembering that he was still armed, with at least two bullets left in the clip.

He drew it the pistol from his waistband, and before anyone realized what he was doing, and before anyone could stop him, he pulled the trigger.

And at thousands of miles an hour, Dean watched that one bullet break the sound barrier, and watch the horror ignite on the demon’s faces as it collided with the glass. Of course it didn’t break through. But a spiderweb emerged, and it grew, the catalytic cracking heard from all corners of the room.

And, just for good measure, he pulled the trigger again.

No Faceless Child there to stop him.

 

The second bullet struck close to it’s predecessor, and the web grew at an alarming rate, distorting the image of the men behind the glass.

Dean grinned to himself. “Now you get that man some help or I swear to God I will send another one,” he said, “And this time, the glass comes down.”

Dean dropped the gun.

And he walked out, without another word to send him on his way. He caught a glimpse of confusion, and perhaps… relief on Gadreel’s face. A silent thank you.

They would dock him marks for this small outburst. But he couldn’t even be mad about it, because all he was trying to do was stand up for Gadreel. Avox or not, you can’t just kill people like that. You can’t just send them to execution like that…

_(monsters.)_

Dean wouldn’t stand for it. He swore to himself, walking out of that room, that when he and Cas escaped the arena with Becky and Kevin, the first thing he was gong to do was get Sam out of Panem. Pack their things, bring supplies. Cas would come too. But they were going to leave this place behind.

Because if the world worked like this, then they would all be dead within a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a month, but trust me, I had exams. I finished it as soon as I could.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I'm so glad that you guys keep coming back to read this fic! My wrists are on fire!
> 
> There's no much that I really have to say about this chapter, with the exception that I'm now officially half way through the story. Go me.
> 
> The next chapter is going to not be as long as this one... hopefully (this one is like twenty pages). Sam will be in there, since we never check up on how he's doing.
> 
> Until next time,  
> -Marina


	16. Chapter 16

**Little Brother**

Sam stood in the rain, just like everyone else in 12. Three inches of rain had fallen in the past four days, and at this rate, all of 12 would become a tiny lake in the middle of nowhere. The mines had pretty much flooded out, all of the workers now standing in the square. All of the residents were here, huddled under raincoats and umbrellas, waiting. A sea of bodies all pressed uncomfortably together in attempt to get a descent view. Holding their breath. Staring up at the big television screen, with their eyes locked.

Waiting in a terrible silence.

Classes had been let out early for this. Sam stood beside Jess, fog emitted from his mouth, his long hair soaked through to his skull and plastered to his neck.

It was so miserable today.

It’s been a couple of weeks since the train took Dean away. It’s been a couple of weeks, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen days since their names were drawn from the bowl, since they said their goodbyes, since Sam sprinted down the tracks, not wanting to lose his brother. Not wanting to lose

_(bean)_

Dean like this.

Sam woke up everyday, and their room would be freezing. He would glance over, check the bed next to him, hoping for a sign of life. Rising and falling blankets, a stray foot from underneath the covers, but the bed was always empty. And then Sam would convince himself that Dean had gone to work early, or went hunting. Any kind of lie, just to make him forget that Dean was actually gone. Any kind of lie that might tell him that Dean would be home for dinner, play his guitar, count the money in the jar and daydream about the days to come where they would drive that car right out of this pit that held so many of their worst memories.

For a few minutes in early morning confusion, Sam was able to convince himself of that.

And then he would wake up, and reality would be staring right back at him. Reality would be the shadow on the wall at night, the beast underneath the bed. It haunted him, followed him like some kind of ghost that didn’t know where else to go, that wouldn’t let a little brother’s lie win.

And now he stood in the square, just like everyone else, drenched in rain, and waiting for a sign that maybe everything was going to be okay.

“I’m sure he did fine,” Jess leaned towards him, breaking the silence for a second, “He’s Dean Winchester, after all.”

Sam sighed, the grey clouds above them only enforcing his melancholy. “I know,” he muttered. “I’m just… worried. That’s all.”

It was more than worry. It was full blown panic and Sam was good at hiding it away.

_It’s different when it’s your big brother._

Jess took his hand, and he squeezed it tight.

_It’s different when he’s your family and he put you first and it’s you’re fault he’s in there fighting for his life and there’s nothing you can do except watch and hope._

Sam wondered if this is what it felt like to have loved ones go fight in wars. You’d hear some news, the media though would keep you only updated enough to scratch the surface of what was going on. The public only got to know a small percentage of what was really happening, and nothing more. They were mostly blind to the truth, kept just out of arms reach. Despite knowing this for a fact, Sam still had the TV on all the time now at home, watching it late into the night, coming to school with bloodshot eyes and an exhausted grin. When they broadcasted the Tributes Parade live, which they had watched in school, Sam ran out of the room, in tears, and his friend Aaron found him in the bathroom stalls ten minutes later, sobbing.

_You cannot destroy me._

_Oh Dean, why would you do that?_

He knew that the message was consensual. He agreed to it. There’s no way that people could force Dean into that if he didn’t want to do it.

And of course Dean wouldn’t dare pass up the chance to throw a middle finger up to the Capitol. A loud _fuck you!_ to show the country that he wasn’t just their play piece. Sam was proud. But at the same time he just wished that Dean would keep his mouth shut.

The Capitol doesn’t let rebels off easy. That’s how all of this started in the first place.

_(may the odds ever be in your favour)_

What Sam would give for that.

Dead mother, drunk father, and now a soldier of a brother who was fighting against other kids to get back home.

The odds were _never_ in their favour.

The screen flickered to life, and whatever chatter that had been going on previously ended. The quiet was almost unbearable, with the only noise being that of the falling rain, and the out of sync beating of a few hundred hearts.

A man appeared on the screen, and everyone instantly recognized him. Thankfully, it wasn’t President Crowley, with the cold stare that struck fear into all those outside the Capitol. No, this man, with his pink hair tied up in a bun on top of his head and his smile that could’ve made a nation cheered, was not Crowley. Not a single voice cheered or gave ovation, though. It was just a lingering quietness.

This man’s name was Nichola, who was one of the Capitol’s “news anchors” for the Games. He was the one who conducted most of the tribute’s interviews, and would later on commentate the events of the Games.

Sam was sure that maybe he was a nice man. Maybe with a wife, a few kids, he certainly looked old enough to do so. He certainly didn’t look like an evil raging psychopath, either. But he was brainwashed, just like the rest of them over there. Brainwashed to believe that the Games weren’t just a children's slaughterhouse.

Made to believe that the Games were a form of entertainment.

And it was a twisted form of belief.

And Sam tried not to hate him. But he couldn’t help it.

Brainwashed or not, he still contributed to the madness of it all.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Nichola announced, a charming smile flashing across his face, “Yesterday, as I’m all sure you’re aware, was the day that the Gamemakers assessed the skills of all twenty-four tributes going into the twenty-fifth Hunger Games, the first Quarter Quell! In a moment, they will release the final scores and we will display them live, so those of you at home can select your favourites!”

_(its all so sick all of this)_

Sam had to force himself to take a deep breath. Remember to breathe. _It’s okay,_ he had to remind himself, _It’s okay. It’s okay._

It’s okay.

The rain kept pouring down, and it was like everyone was holding their breath. The rain kept pouring down, because things like the rain don’t really care for people like Sam and Dean Winchester, or Jessica Moore, or anybody that stood in the town square that miserable afternoon. The rain’s only purpose is to be one droplet of water out of thousands of thousands of droplets of water, and to fall from the sky. It wasn’t in its nature to give a crap about what it fell on.

So when the rain fell on Sam Winchester, and flooded this town, it seemed like the world had come to a standstill, as if it had suddenly stopped turning, or a least, slowed down. It was like these people in District 12 meant absolutely nothing, and nobody cared. The frame by frame of life moves so slowly, somedays, and all you can do is look up at the sky and scream, and choke on the rain. And then die.

Because nobody, not even the rain, cares.

_Sammy, it’s okay. It’s okay._

He pulled Jess closer to him, and she rested her head against his shoulder, their fingers tightening on one another.

_I volunteer as tribute._

A memory came back to him. The night before Voting Day. Dad had the TV on and loud. Dean and him had been arguing, it wasn’t anything new, they were always arguing and it was always bad.

_You don’t just waltz in there an expect to come back the same person._

Oh, Dean had been terrified of the Games. Not because what what could happen to him. But because if the Games took away Sam…

 _I won’t let them take Sam,_ Dean said.

If they took Sam Dean wouldn’t forgive himself. Lose himself…

For him, it was easier risking his own life than watching the person he pulled from a house fire fourteen years ago do the same.

A brave man. A stupid man.

And Sam loved him all the same.

He would’ve smiled had Nichola’s face not suddenly brightened.

“We’ve got the results!” he proclaimed, and somewhere on the other side of the screen, an audience applauded and cheered. Sam felt his chest tighten, then relax, then tighten again. Each breath hurt.

_Please, Dean. Please tell me you’ve pulled through. Tell me that you’re serious about making it home. I miss you. I need you._

“Starting with District 1. Castiel Novak,” the television displayed an image behind Nicola of a dark haired boy, with crystal blue eyes. A short video clip, where the boy moved, shifting slightly, sometimes looking into the camera. “Scoring… an eleven out of twelve.”

The entire square released a loud groan. Already, things weren’t looking good, and Sam felt dread suddenly fall on him, heart beating wildly.

Castiel looked nothing like his older brother, Lucifer.

And, for some reason, Sam didn’t think he was anything like him, either. There was a shimmer in those blue eyes that spoke differently. Like the way Dean’s eyes talked, the way Dean;s eyes shined. They had a different, vibrant colour that contained life. Empathy.

Sam didn’t feel any sort of hate towards this boy, despite not even knowing him.

Castiel glanced into the camera, and a little smile appeared, just a small one and only for a second, but within that second Sam saw why he couldn’t hate him. Wouldn’t hate him.

That was a smile that Benny would pull.

With a lasting kindness. And only ever for a second.

His face disappeared and was replaced with that of a girl with flaming red hair. She did not smile, gave Sam a bad vibe, and scored only a nine.

Names and faces floated past, Sam not paying attention. Numbers were thrown out. Seven, six, ten, six, nine, five, seven, eight, eight, the only eleven so far being Castiel—

“—four out of twelve. Looks like District 9 might have a bit of tough luck with their female tribute.”

Sam looked back to the screen, and was taken aback with the girl staring out in the camera. She was young. Way younger than most of the other tributes. She was thin, with long brown hair and the biggest brown eyes Sam had ever seen. The name displayed under her shallow face read _Link Forgo, District 9._

She was probably even younger than Becky.

 _Why… why the hell would they vote for her?_ Sam wondered, _She’s just a little kid. Of all people, and she got the most votes._

How is that possible?

Nichola finished up with the tributes from 10, and Sam held his breath. So far, nobody had scored either greater or equally to Castiel Novak. Some came close, like 1’s female tribute and the female tribute from District 4 (her name was Megan Masters, Sam thinks. Got a ten.)

“Moving onto our final district, District 12, where I’m sure we all remember Dean Winchester, with the carvings in his back. A bit of a stir, that one caused. His title around these parts is the _Escape Artist_ —” some laughter was heard from Nichola’s audience, “—due to him trying to break out of the Tributes Tower the first night he arrived.” He laughed long with the rest of them. “Bit of an odd ball, this guy.”

Sam felt the colour drain from his face.

Dean actually tried to _escape?_

He didn’t know about that. There was nothing in the news about that.

If Dean tried to get out, and was still there, still in danger and going to get thrown into the Hunger Games…

“Oh, my god,” Sam muttered to himself, “I’m so sorry, Dean…”

He got caught.

He got a sudden image of people dragging Dean back, Dean trying to break free but couldn’t. Crying out. Just wanting to get home. Putting up a fight, no doubt about it.

Sam nearly bursted into a fit of tears upon seeing his brother’s face on the screen. Nearly screamed, nearly lost it. But he didn’t. Jess wrapped her arms around his torso, keeping him warm from the rain, but the wetness still soaked through his clothes and into his skin, and he shivered in her hug. How did that old song go that Dean always sang?

_(dont you cry no more)_

Dean didn’t look sad, or angry or blank up on that screen. His eyes were to the floor, and a cocky ass grin was on his face that made Sam gave a broken laugh, voice cracking under the strain to keep it together.

 _It’s okay, Sammy,_ he told him on the stage, when they were both so scared, holding onto one another for dear life. It felt forever ago. Almost in another life. _It’s okay._

“The score for Dean Winchester is—”

A collective breath was taken from every single body in that square. A breath. Just one, but it was a breath. They were all thinking the same thing.

They were all hoping for a reason to hope.

And Sam was one of the many hopeless in the world were rain did not care where it landed.

“—eleven out of twelve!”

And with those words, Sam let there tears flow, and everyone could breathe again. And they rejoiced. And they shouted and they made noise that Dean Winchester actually had a high score. This could mean food for two years for the District. This could mean that there was something to _hope_ for.

It meant to everyone else survival.

For Sam, it meant getting his brother back. His family.

_(bean)_

“Holy cow! I can’t believe it!” cried Nichola, his face lit up like coloured lights, cheeks matching the tone of his hair, “This boy ranked the same as Novak! This is actually amazing!”

The image of Dean flickered briefly but remained, that smug grin growing. Then his green eyes turned to the camera. And he mouthed something.

Most people missed it. Too busy celebrating their newfound faith, too busy in all their excitement to watch what Dean Winchester was silently whispering. But Sam caught it, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled so big it would have fuelled the sun.

_Hey there, Sammy._

His face was soon replaced by Becky’s, who was ranked a five. People even celebrated that, with rounds of laughter and cheers and tears, they even celebrated that.

It’s funny what this kind of hope can spark. 12 had been so dead from the rain, so dead from everything, that the sudden spread of life in the eyes of the citizens made the world shine a bit brighter.

Sam still couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen, even minutes after it had gone black, and the square started to empty. Jess stayed by his side, and he kissed her gently on the forehead. “Thanks,” he told her. She chuckled, and hugged him once more.

“No problem, Sam.”

They stood there for a while longer, the smile never fading from Sam’s lips. And it didn’t matter now that the rain didn’t care who or what it landed on. The rain on his skin didn’t matter, the still falling rain didn’t matter.

Dean had a chance in this.

He actually had a chance.

 _Just come home, now,_ Sam thought, _That’s all you have to do. You can come home._

***

The rain didn’t stop despite it no longer mattering, however.

Sam walked Jess home, shoes sloshing through the miniature flood, water splashing into their socks. The rain lightened, however, and would probably stop sometime before nightfall. After Jess waved to him from her doorstep, he made his way out of town, finding the muddy path to lead him to the electric fence. For about ten minutes he stayed there, head pressed against the chain links, feeling the cool metal up against his skin. He was tempted to climb over it and go for a long awaited walk in the woods, to take in the fresh air in this feeling of being alive again, but decided against it. It was getting late. He should be getting home, first, and then maybe he could take his bow out.

The mud clung to the bottoms of his sneakers, weighing him down, making his walk difficult. He was still excited about Dean’s score, but the misery began its slow return, and he couldn’t push it away or lock it as much as he wanted to.

He tucked his hands in his pockets, his fingers numb.

By the time he finally reached the house, his hands were shaking so bad he almost couldn’t get the key in the lock. The key slipped from his grasp and almost was lost in the freezing mud. Sam fetched it out, wiped it on his jacket, and managed, with some time in between, to open the door.

It was quiet nowadays, the only noise being the low static of the television, which Sam refused to turn off, just in case if there was any news about the Games. About Dean.

There was always that _just in case_ clinging in the back of his mind.

He took off his jacket and hung it over one of the kitchen chairs to dry, then went to go take a bath. The water was barely warmer than that of the rain, but it was clean, and it took his mind off of things. Maybe, if Dean really did win the Games, they could get a hot water tank in the house. That and some descent plumbing. That’d be really nice.

He put on clean clothes, a fresh t-shirt and sweater, and waited for the rain to stop, propping open one of Dean’s old books in his lap. The pages were yellowed and dog eared in all sorts of places, but it brought Sam a good amount of comfort (the title of the book was called “the Hobbit”, and Sam had to say it was actually really good.) The rain didn’t come to a full halt, but it was reduced to nothing more than a slight mist, and that was good enough for the fourteen year old. A bit of sunlight peeked through the grey clouds.

Today wasn’t such a bad day, after all.

It’s been a while since Sam decided to go out into the backyard. There wasn’t much special about it, other than an old wooden fence around the perimeter that needed repainting and some serious repairs, and a small pen for when the Winchesters used to have goats. The grass was mostly dead, and shrivelled weeds grew in odd parts.

The only thing really special about their backyard was the cross made from two sticks that stood crooked in the corner.

Sam walked to it, kneeled in front of it, and adjusted the makeshift grave marker, so it sat upright again. He gave it a small smile.

“Hey, Mom,” he said. The cross didn’t reply. It never did, but Sam always forgave it. Not much it can do when all you are is a little tombstone.

Sometimes Mary would say something.

They didn’t recover a body after the fire, left with nothing to bury. So John had collected a bunch of the ashes of the burned down house, locked them in a box, and put it in the dirt. It was all they had left of her. All they could do for a funeral.

Sam sat by the grave, not caring if the seat of his pants got dirty. Resting an elbow on his knee, he began to talk. “They read Dean’s score today,” he recited for her, “And get this: he gets an eleven out of twelve. Like, that’s insane. Only him and this one other kid scored that high.”

He imagined her sitting in front of him, now, smiling at his words. Sam doesn’t remember what his mother looked like. Being six months old, he barely remembered anything from the incident. He had a good mental image from Dean’s description, though. He used to ask Dean about her all the time when they were little, and every time, Dean would say that she was beautiful. Blond hair, fierce eyes and the most loving voice he’s ever heard. Voice of angels. Even better than the voice of angels.

With that information, Sam used his imagination the best he could.

“He has a really good chance, Mom,” Sam continued, “I think… he might really make it home. I want him to come home so bad. I already went out and bought the Impala, too. Surprise him when he gets back. The miners pitched together some cash for me, since I’m still in school and can’t earn money myself. Half of it went to the car, the other half went to food, whatever I can’t hunt for.” Sam chuckled to himself. “When I bought it the guy at the Hob just looked at me with wide eyes. Never thought we’d actually be able to pay all four hundred bucks of it, after all these years. Can’t take it back here yet, can’t drive it, but when Dean comes home…”

He smiled at the cross again.

“We’re going to leave this dumb town. This dumb country. I have no clue where we’re going to go, but there’s gotta be somewhere besides here, right?”

She still stayed quiet. Sam didn’t mind. He was quiet, too.

“Mom, if you can hear me,” Sam whispered, “Please. Protect Dean, as much as you can. If you can. I miss him. Never felt so alone. I mean I have Jess now, but without Dean here, it doesn’t feel right. And he’s on the other side of the country from me. I can’t have his back. Someone has to have his back…”

He hesitated, before speaking what he had on his mind.

“Dad’s gone, too, Mom,” he finally said, taking a deep breath, feeling tears form again, “Dad’s gone. I don’t know where or why, but I woke up two days ago and he just… he just left. I went all over town looking for him, but he must’ve skipped out. You have to look after him too, okay? He’s not a good father, but that doesn’t mean I want him dead. I’m just so alone, Mom…”

Sam wiped at his eyes quickly, then rose to his feet. “I better go see if I can hunt something to eat for this week. That last deer is running out. Bye, Mom. I’ll keep you updated.”

One more time he straightened out the cross, smiling sadly at it. He missed her. He missed Dean.

He walked back into the house and loaded up his quiver, slung it over his shoulders and picked up his bow, hand running over the aging wood. Also when Dean got back, he was going to buy a new bow. This one was beginning to splinter.

He got on his gloves and hunting boots, but the hood of his sweater on, and took off out the door, almost forgetting to lock it again.

Sam headed out towards the electric fence, the ground becoming more solid beneath his feet. Not perfect hunting conditions, but he’s gone out in worse. There’s had been a metre of snow piled up one winter and John still made Sam and Dean go snag something. They did, of course, but it was challenging with a fucking metre of snow in the way.

Sam laughed at the memory. Dean had been so grumpy the entire trip, grumbling on about how it was nonsense that they were out in the feeling cold trying to take down deer, Sam just smirking at the back of his head as Dean marched through the heavy snow with his shotgun in hand, leading the way, clearing a path.

It sucked, but they both admitted in the end, it was kind of fun.

Dean really made the hunts worth while. With snarky remarks and terrible jokes, he could turn the worst day ever into something more tolerable. He was an idiot, sometimes, would scare away the prey by accident, but Sam was glad that Dean was his hunting partner. There’s nobody he’d rather have than his brother, guns and arrows blazing side by side.

And now Sam was out alone, and it really wasn’t the same.

_(hey there sammy)_

He reached the fence. Slinging the bow across his shoulders, banging it against the quiver, he twined his fingers into the links, and began to climb. There was barbed wire at the top, but after years of getting over the top, there was a small section where the boys could get through unscathed easily enough.

During Sam’s ascension, there was still something that bothered him.

The girl who was only marked a four. She had the lowest score out of the twenty-four tributes. She was probably just barely twelve. With that thin face and those big, big brown eyes that spoke in volumes, how the hell did she ever get voted into this mess? The Districts voted to win, hadn’t they?

But then again there had been Becky. And Sam had been pretty shocked that she had gotten the most out of all the girl’s in 12. She was in no shape to compete in something as heavy as this. He had written down Madison’s name. She was a girl as tough as nails who might've had a good go in the arena, a lot better than most.

How was it possible that enough people wrote down their names for this to happen to them?

Sam swung himself over the top, falling with a satisfying _thud_ on the ground below, knees bending as he landed to distribute the pressure, and started towards the forest.

Two girls that young and that vulnerable? If Sam didn’t know any better he would say that the voting had to be rigged to cause that—

He stopped walking.

“No way.”

_Sam Winchester. Dean Winchester._

“No way,” he repeated in a skinny breath, “Oh my god…”

_(they still are kids)_

What if the voting really was rigged?

How much sense would that make?

_I get to say goodbye!_

How likely was it that District 12 would really vote in Becky Rosen for the Hunger Games?

_Don’t let them take me without saying goodbye!_

How likely was it that it was a tie between the two brothers?

“Oh my god…” Sam looked back at the fence, his heart pounding against his chest.

And it all makes sense, doesn’t it?

It explains Becky, and the District 9 girl. It explains why it was both the brothers to be drawn against one another. Why there were young faces in a pool that were supposed to be portrayed as the best. Because the Districts were playing to win. This was two years of happiness on the line, two years of salvation with food and water and gifts for the kids. Who in their right mind would risk that all and send a twelve year old into the army just to watch them get ripped apart?

The answer was simple: no one.

It wasn’t a logical move, especially when you were even allowed to make the move in the first place.

It was rigged. It had to be.

Whatever little sunshine that still remained in the day vanished under the cover of the horizon, and Sam stood still, not sure what this all meant.

Then again, he felt like he did know.

The Capitol wouldn’t just want a bloodbath. They never just wanted a bloodbath.

No.

They wanted a funhouse.

Entertainment. And they rigged the votes, just to get it.

It was all a big performance. All just an act. Make the people believe they have a choice in something, but they fiddled with it and manipulated them and lied to them and there never really was any freedom or any choice.

_The voting was fucking rigged._

What if all the tributes were picked before hand? Had the Capitol been spying, seeking out an interesting bunch to make a good show?

Sam drew an arrow and shot it blindly into the forest. Then he drew another one and let it fly, then one after the next, not really sure what he was shooting at, until the quiver sat empty on his back. An imaginary enemy.

It wasn’t 12’s fault for voting them in.

It was the Capitol. It’s always been the Capitol.

“Bastards!” Sam cried out, “Damn bastards took my brother!”

He turned back to the fence, and without a second thought, ran back towards it. He tossed his bow over the side and began to climb again.

No point hunting now. He had to tell somebody.

But who was there left to tell? Dean was in the Games, John disappeared, Bobby was busy being a mentor. He could always go to Jess…

His feet hit the ground, and he snatched up the bow, legs working his body into a sprint.

_Tell Jess, tell Garth, tell anybody who’ll listen. Spread it like disease._

_Become the disease._

Sam ran.

This is what the beginning of revolution looks like. Not always a message stained in blood. Sometimes all it takes is for a kid to work out the puzzle.

A kid solves the puzzle, and then the world collapses. 

_(may the odds be ever in your favour)_

That's the thing.

They never were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This actually had to have been one of my favourite chapters to write since "This Is the Way the World Ends". I've always had this idea for a chapter to go back and visit Sam back in District 12, but I never would've guessed I'd really like what I'd do with it.
> 
> Hopefully I can find a good spot to fit another Sam-based chapter into this fic, because I think it's important to see what's happening to him back at home and how he's handling being alone. Also, he's a smart kid.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the brief change in the story, because I certainly did. The next chapter should be interesting (probably really fluffy, so... brace yourself). But we're getting incredibly close to the Games.
> 
> Really close.
> 
> -Marina


	17. Chapter 17

**Sunshine**

Cas waited by the lobby piano, heart beating in fluttering patterns that made his chest hurt which he desperately attempted to calm. His hands were strangling one another behind his back, palms sweating. He didn’t know why he felt so nervous, why he had difficulty breathing right or why the lobby seemed so cold. There might have been a draft coming through the door causing the chill. Or maybe it was just Cas in his clamminess. The blue tie was wrung around his neck a bit too tight for his comfort, and he wondered if maybe he was suffocating. His fingers wound their way around the knot, yearning for freedom while on a short leash. Despite his struggling, his airway seemed no clearer.

The big interviews were tonight. In front of hundreds upon hundreds (not even counting the millions watching eagerly from behind the lens of the cameras), the twenty-four of them would be presented like pieces at an auction house, fake it, answer questions and pretend like everything was alright and they weren’t just children made out to be soldiers. Like it was a good time. The twenty-four of them would be competing for the love of the people, either with sap stories and tears or confessions of love to swing them over, fighting to be the favourite. Gain support from the wolves, and the lambs had a better chance of not being torn apart alive. Every word was for survival.

However, that wasn’t the reason for Castiel being so anxious.

The interviews can certainly be intimidating, being judged by the whole nation, but he had watched Luce face them for years with such ease, every now and then being faced head on by one himself. Being put on the spot and nailed to a cross with rapid fire questions wasn’t something that bothered Cas. It wasn’t even that tomorrow was the start of the Hunger Games. The true start. They would all be shipped off to the arena and recklessly slaughter one another, for a need to live, a desire to crawl their way out of hell.

It was terrifying to think about, yet it wasn’t the thing that had Cas in a skittish frenzy.

It would bother him later, when he woke up with the sun on his face. When he remembered that he was there, as a weapon with no say, forced against a rally of other bombs and hand grenades. Cas would be struck with fear and refuse to show it, eyes deadpanned and an inaudible prayer on his lips, an inaudible prayer screaming to get him out, to save Dean, to save Kevin and Becky because they were only children and children were not meant to be fighters. Hope was a flame inside him, crying out to set fire to the air, and put a lock on his trigger. Hide away the explosive, hide away the grenade pin, keep him from detonating. Cas never wanted to go off.

And then he would watch as Dean did the same thing, but with a small, sad smile on his pretty face, and with shaky hands that he would try and hide from sight.

This is what would worry him in the early hours of the morning. It was not what had him bothered right now, at this particular moment, standing alone by the piano.

No.

Cas was nervous because he loved Dean Winchester so much.

It was exciting, the way they loved. The nights Dean spent with him, the touching of skin, the sex, the kisses they exchanged that left Cas breathless in the ecstasy, and he absolutely loved every moment he spent with that boy with the bright green eyes. A peaceful walk in Heaven after so long battling in Purgatory. Dean’s voice, the beating of his heart, the way his eyes would crinkle when he laughed and that cocky smirk he would always pull. Cas adored Dean’s freckles, would try and count them when Dean was asleep, always having to restart because Dean would roll over or move. Not that Cas minded.

He loved the way Dean understood him, read him like a book, gently turning pages and eager to learn something new about Cas. A kind boy, a brave boy who would defend his brother to the death, who wanted to escape the tragedy of life and drive off into the horizon for miles on end. A boy who read too much, filled to the brim with references that no one but him seemed to understand, a boy lost in fantasy and fiction. A rebel. A wonderful rebel, and here Cas stood, next to the piano with no sense of denying it: he was in love with him. Hopelessly, hopelessly in love with Dean Winchester. And he was more than okay with that.

It was a miserable fact that they had met each other at the wrong time. They met when they were both destined for death row and a world of hurt, treated like beaten pit-bulls made to war against each other, to rip the other to shreds. But then a very fast chain of events happened at their feet that they couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. It started with sweet sugar cubes and horses and look what has become of them. A rebel and a poet and a very dangerous secret. Still in line for the noose, but with a hand to hold as they both choked.

Maybe there was an alternate universe out there, where they had fallen in love and fallen in love right. Not cornered by fear of death, with the reaper at their doorstep. Not in a universe where the Hunger Games existed. Someplace safe. Where the sun rising simply meant another day to live and not just survive, and they could wake up together, make coffee, laugh. Have stable careers, raise children, grow old in one another’s arms, smiling all the while.

There weren’t many things that Cas would sell his soul for, if there truly were such things as souls. But he knew for a fact that if somebody offered him a deal where he and Dean could transfer over to that other universe in exchange for it, he had no doubt in his mind that he would take it. They deserved to be happy, after the hell that they went through.

They deserved to fall in love right.

Cas checked his watch, for the third time in the past ten minutes, and each time he did the little thin hands seemed to move slower and slower. Dean had told him to meet him down here by 5:10, and it was already seven minutes passed that.

He sighed, thinking that Dean had forgotten about him. His fingers tugged at his tie again, throat suddenly very dry.

Just as he was about to leave, though, the elevator doors pried open, and out walked Dean, brushing something off his shoulders casually. Cas’ mouth fell open, gaping at the sight.

Dean looked astonishing. Head to toe in a dark red tuxedo, a black tie pressed against his chest, nails painted to match. Gold glitter sparkled in his hair and danced under his eyes, which had been sharpened by thin, dark lines that just caused Cas’ heart to stutter. He felt rather underdressed in his simple black vest and blue tie compared to Dean, and couldn’t take his eyes away.

“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” Dean apologized as he reached Cas, a hand greeting him by cupping his face, thumb stroking the soft skin of Cas’ jawline. “Charlie insisted to give the makeup a shot, then she stabbed me in the eye and I teared up so bad we had to start all over again.”

Cas grinned, butterflies in his stomach working up a storm. “Well, she did a good job. It looks amazing, I have to say.”

Dean chuckled at the comment, leaning in to press their foreheads together, their breaths slowing down and falling into sync, patient and longing for one another. Dean closed whatever little space remained between them, locking their lips. It wasn’t strong and passionate and angry like the kisses they shared in bed, but soft, tender. Careful. There was no lust or wanting. Just simple _longing_. Cas couldn’t resist the urge to give a low moan into it.

When they pulled away, Cas saw something new glint in Dean’s eyes. There were traces of obvious excitement, but also hints of something else. It could’ve been anxiety, perhaps even sorrow. Cas couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Dean,” he whispered, “Are you alright? Is something wrong?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. Time lingered between them, and he looked to be debating with himself again. He went to taste Cas’ mouth again.

“Castiel, you know how much you mean to me, right?” he breathed, their eyes meeting. “You’re so damn important to me, so fucking important, you know that?”

“Of course,” Cas responded delicately, “I would never forget that.”

“I love you.”

The dark haired boy beamed. “And I love you.” He kissed him again, wanting it to last forever and ever, for centuries, until the world died beneath them. Dean’s hands moved to hold Cas’ neck, his fingers running into his hair, needing to pull him closer. Their bodies were practically moulded together, with Cas’ back up against the wall. If they didn’t have those interviews to attend to in less than an hour, Cas would wanted Dean to take him back to his room and to fuck him until they were both high off the thrill, underneath the covers, fingernails clawing in between his shoulder blades, leaving long red rivers.

Never had he so badly wanted to be with Dean. Just them exploring each other, to finally live.

Dean must have sensed this, because he let his hands fall slowly down Cas’ back, gently grabbing his ass, steadily grinding their hips together. Their kiss became more fierce, Dean’s tongue darting into Castiel’s mouth and Cas letting him. Really, they should just skip the interviews all together.

But Dean ended it, a quick kiss on Cas’ neck. “We don’t have time,” he whispered, although Cas could tell there was disappointment in his tone. “Tonight, after. Promise.”

Cas groaned, and Dean smirked at him.

“I just want to warn you, too,” Dean started, his voice flowing in a way that Cas very much loved about him, “I’ve got a surprise for you. Well, actually… two. Technically two. So just be prepared for that.”

Cas raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “Really?” he asked, “What is it?” But Dean just wagged a finger at him.

“Shut up, it’s a surprise. If I told you right now then I’d ruin it, and that takes all the fun out of it,” he claimed. “You gotta sit back and just wait. In the meantime, let me fix your tie. It’s a mess.”

Dean fiddled with the fabric, taking his sweet time, occasionally leaving his hands to brush against Cas’ skin, loosening the knot a great deal. It felt like the executioners noose was lifted from him, and Cas sighed happily in relief. Then he noticed that strange shimmer in Dean’s expression, still remaining, finely defined by the slight frown he wore.

“You’re going to do great, Dean,” he spoke in a mild manner. Dean glanced back up, finishing correcting the tie, leaving the knot to sit comfortably at the hollow of Cas throat. “You always do great. Sway the entire country to tears with those freckles of yours.”

“It’s not that,” the other man mumbled, flattening Cas’ tie with the rough palm of his hand, leaving it to relax above his heart for a moment, “But thank you. _You’re_ going to be fantastic. Everyone will be swooning for you afterwards.” Dean winked at him, yet there was still a bit of uneasiness in his motions.

“Dean, what’s bothering you?”

Dean hesitated before answering, sighing deeply. His hands rubbed at his face for a long minute before dropping defeated at his sides.

“Nothing,” he grunted finally, “I’m fine.” Cas wasn’t daft, however. Dean can be a great liar sometimes, but it was like with the nightmares he woke up to in the middle of the night. He would reassure Cas that it was okay, but it was that same pained look, and Cas wouldn’t be fooled easily.

He took Dean’s hands carefully in his own. “Dean. It’s okay. You can tell me. What’s wrong?”

Dean gave his signature half smile, a touch of sadness floating behind it. His heartbeat accelerated, the pulse flowing into Cas’ fingertips.

“As informal as it is,” Dean said, giving into Cas’ pleading, “it’s going to be the first time that Sam sees me in real time since after I left. I mean, I left him a quick message on the scores video, but I had to beg on my hands and knees for them not to edit it out. But now I’ll be in a zone where I can say pretty much whatever I want. Say I miss him. Tell him that, hey, I’m coming home and for him just to hold on and not to worry. I could tell my dad I still hate his guts and not get my ass beaten,” he forced a light laugh, “but that I was hoping he’s taking care of my baby brother for me while I’m away. I just… I just wish that he was here and I could tell him all this in his face, you know? I’m fucking homesick right now, and I hate it. I wish I could write him a letter… tell him it’s alright. I’m so nervous… I just want to tell him it’s okay.”

They stood together in the silence. Dean’s glance was to the ground, their hands still holding onto each other. Cas smiled, maundering his hands to Dean’s face, and gently kissed his forehead before his arms found there way into Dean’s suit jacket, holding him close. Dean hugged him back, tight, burying his face into Cas’ neck.

“I’m sorry, it’s stupid. I shouldn’t of brought it up.”

But Cas just shook his head. “It’s not stupid at all,” he argued. “You say a lot of stupid things some days, Dean, but this isn’t one of them. Don’t ever apologize for missing someone you love, because it’s okay to miss them, to want to be with them again. It’s not stupid. It’s plain human emotion. Don’t be sorry for that.”

Dean pulled out from the embrace, the sad smile returning. “You did that thing again. That thing where you speak and every word that tumbles out of your mouth is poetry. Beautiful poetry.”

Cas snickered. “I wouldn’t call it very good poetry.”

“Still,” Dean said in a low voice, “It’s potty. And I love it.” He paused briefly, taking in the sight of his lover in front of him. “Thank you.”

They kissed one more time, making sure that it lasted and lingered for a good while. Creating a small forever in a matter of seconds.

It was a wonderful feeling to be in love. Despite being doomed from the start.

***

Dean watched the small television screen up in front of him, his back leaning against the wall, arms crossed and fingers tapping restlessly on his biceps to an unheard beat. Every now and then he would shift his weight from one leg to the other, trying to get comfortable. He was going to be standing there for a while, yet nothing he did affected the tension in his muscles and his chest. There were no chairs in the back room, where him and twenty-two other tributes, and some of their mentors including Bobby, and Lucifer Novak, huddled in the corner, and hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

Dean didn’t like the look of that. Cas seemed stiff near his brother, eyes towards the ground, shoulders pulled back and eyes blank. Like he was uncomfortable. Lucifer, however, stood tall with a cold grin, watching the screen attentively. Anna was giving her interview now, laughing along with whatever Nichola was saying. Dean wasn’t listening. His eyes were too busy flickering over to Cas, teeth gritted, wanting to walk over and rip Lucifer a new one. For killing Benny, and for whatever reason Cas was tensed up under his touch.

Dean tried to push away the idea that perhaps Luce had done something to Cas…

An elbow made contact with his ribs, and Dean flinched. “Son of a bitch!” he mumbled.

“Watch your language, boy,” Bobby hissed back, “And stop staring, you freaking perv. It’s creepy.”

Dean rubbed at his new sore spot, grumbling under his breath that he wasn’t any sort of perv, but Bobby took no notice of him. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the screen. Becky stood on the other side of him, doing the same, draped in a cute black gold dress that came just past her skinny knees. Her hair was done up, and although she wore a good pound of makeup, Dean could tell by her eyes that she was exhausted. They were dreary. She was thirteen, and she should be looking young. The Games had already aged her by five years, and a certain sadness washed over Dean.

“What do you think of this Milton girl?” Bobby asked, and Dean turned his attention back to the stage.

Anna Milton was a very pretty girl, definitely. Long red hair flowing down her back, a length gold gown that grazed the floor, with all but a real smile on her face. She incorporated giggles in her talk, but they felt and looked very fake for Dean. Which he couldn’t blame her for, they were all ultimately faking it, but it seemed as though she were trying too hard and it was hurting her more than being convincing. Dean knew he disliked her. Both she and Cas were from District 1, yet she was a lot more colder than her male counterpart. A lot more like the older Novak, with stone eyes. He had witnessed her bloodlust first hand during their training sessions, would see her from the corner of his vision. The way Anna trained was enough to strike fear into the heart of God. Regardless, Dean couldn’t help but feel some pity towards her.

“She stammers,” Dean commented. “Rigid. Large audiences probably throw her off, but Bobby she could slit my throat without hesitation, there’s no doubt. She’s here to win, that’s for sure. I’m surprised that she’s this nervous to speak in front of a crowd.”

“Don’t give her your sympathy, you idjit. You know you’re here to win too, right? If you feel bad for these kids then you’re gonna die on day one, and it’s gonna suck to watch that.”

Bobby had a point. Hell, a really good point at that, but still, Dean couldn’t help it. They were all just kids, after all. Had this been a different situation or circumstance, maybe Dean and Anna would have gotten along. The unfortunate truth was that it wasn’t of different situation or circumstance. This was the one they were stuck with, trapped inside. If it was between her and Dean, or her and Cas, Dean knew where his priorities stood.

There were things more important than being friends with killers.

_(ive always depended on the kindness of strangers)_

Dean breathed in deeply. Fingers still searching for solace of any kind, itching for guitar strings or piano keys and all they found was his skin, skin that held together the body of a broken man who was only destined to become shattered endlessly, with every passing day. He was a worn out instrument, treated without care for most of his life, an instrument that could only sing it’s song for so long before it was smothered and cursed with deafening silence. When the strings rusted and snapped, when the keys grew old and caved. When the vocal chords withered and died.

But Dean doesn’t believe he’s this instrument.

A songbird, maybe. A songbird whom life had treated unfairly. But never a broken instrument.

He noticed quickly Lucifer leaning in and whispering into Cas’ ear. Cas listened carefully, appearing to hang on to every word spoken to him, and nodded, still with an empty manner in his body language. Lucifer patted him on the back twice, and Cas exited the room. It was time for his interview. Dean wished he could’ve called out _good luck_ to him like on Judgement Day, but Cas was already gone.

The room became a little bit darker.

Anna soon replaced Cas by her mentors side, and he congratulated her, placing a hand on her arm. Anna looked pleased with herself, and Dean held back the urge to roll his eyes for some reason.

Because they weren’t like Cas. Weren’t kind like Cas, or full of love and awe at the world, with curiosity and faith and hope.

Cas was glowing. Everyone else was dim and faint.

And when Castiel appeared on the stage on the small screen, Dean’s heartbeat quickened, and he had to hold back a wide smile.

You know that feeling when you love somebody, and you can feel that heat of the blood that rushes into your cheeks and you can’t even speak because they are a comet rocketing through the sky and you’re just dirt on the hard cold ground? That feeling, the thought of _Was there ever a sun before I met them? Was there light before I laid eyes on them? Or was I just a blind man wandering the Earth?,_ and you’re wonder how you even functioned properly at all without them? This person sort of just stumbled on in and suddenly became your beacon, your refuge, your absolute anchor that keeps you from drifting into insanity, and when you look at them you can’t help but be reminded on how much you love them.

You stare, and you can’t be bothered to turn away, because they’re beautiful, aren’t they?

Because when Cas walked up on that stage, with a grin playing on his lips, waving at the people, dark hair neatly combed and suit vest ironed, Dean knew that feeling.

A sun to a dark world.

And Dean caught himself smiling, too, and quickly disposed of it before Bobby could glance over and see. He wanted to smile, though, and reminded himself he’ll have all of the upcoming night to do so.

Nichola stood and shook Cas’ hand, beaming with excitement, and they both took seats in the white armchairs. Dean could hear the multitude practically rioting from behind the screen, whistling and cheering, and Dean chuckled on the inside.

 _That’s my boy,_ he thought.

Nichola motioned for the crowd to quiet down, before raising the microphone to his mouth. _“Castiel! Finally, after so long I finally get the pleasure of meeting you! How are you tonight, laddie?”_

Cas shrugged his shoulders, charming grin never faltering, and unlike Anna’s, Cas’ was actually believable. _“I’m very good, thank you.”_ He gave the hall a look around, then up at the lights shining down on him. _“I have to say, it’s kind of nice to be in a bit of spotlight after six years of walking in my brother’s shadow.”_

Cas spoke with conviction, but Dean could see right through it. Nichola and the rest of the Capitol citizens laughed along with the joke, unable to detect the boy’s clever acting. It was amazing how real it seemed. Dean knew better, however, knew that Cas was definitely no smooth talker outside the interviews. He put on a show for the cameras but when push came to shove, he was just a dorky kid who could shoot arrows at the speed of light and who sometimes tripped over his own words, who still got anxious asking Dean if they could go to bed together. But tonight, he played the game real good.

 _“Castiel, I have to say I am loving the simplicity of your outfit,”_ Nichola observed, _“Adorable tie, and the vest is very sexy. Although, not to offend you in any way, I’m slightly disappointed. Gideon is your stylist, correct?”_

 _“Indeed,”_ Cas answered smugly, _“And he thought you might say that, because he always adds a unique flare to either his costumes or formal wear. And I’m quite happy to say—”_ he pushed himself out of his seat, straightening his spine, _“—that you’re quite wrong when you say it’s ‘simple.’”_

An electrified brilliance glowed in Cas’ blue eyes, and it was as if the Capitol had gone mute, all waiting in suspense for what they might see. And even Dean had to admit, there was something oddly… dramatic about this, and Dean loved dramatics.

Cas inhaled a long breath, closed his eyes and tipped his chin to the sky, arms outstretched to be parallel with the stage floor. Everyone else sat in waiting, very still.

Almost out of nowhere, a pair of wings erupted behind him. Elegant, dark wings with an incredible span of perhaps twelve feet each, matching the colour of his hair, every feather detailed and outlined with thin sliver strings.

An uproar crashed through the tranquility, loads cheers, intense and happy squealing at the beautiful attrition to the costume.

 _“Wonderful!”_ Nichola cried out, clutching at his chest, _“Absolutely astonishing! Gideon, you have really outdone yourself this time around. I can’t believe how magnificent this is!”_

Bobby gave a low whistle. “Neat-o.”

“Oh my god,” Dean croaked, “Oh my god…”

His skin had gone cold, the colour poured from his face, although nobody would be able to tell from under the blush. Dean was frozen against the wall, and suddenly the air turned very thick and heavy and he just about choked on it.

_Angel wings._

All the memories, all the dreams came rushing back, Cas in the forest, Cas in the church, with the same wings spread out, broken or bleeding in order to protect him. The nightmares where Cas would be dying with those damn things attached to his shoulders—

 _It can’t mean anything,_ Dean thought, unable to say it out loud, _It’s coincidence. Pure coincidence, it has to be be. There’s no way this can be linked to the dreams. It’s not possible…_

Then why did it send a shiver through him to look at them? Why was he having trouble swallowing air?

_(an angel lays at the base of a tree naked and shivering against the snow)_

“Pretty fancy,” Bobby added, completely oblivious to Dean’s horror, “Pretty angel boy.” It was like Dean’s fear of large fires. Ever since he was little and pulled Sammy out of their burning house, they’ve terrified him, haunted him at night. These wings were like ghosts that wouldn’t give up until they got what they wanted, and Dean had no idea what the hell that could be.

_(its black wings flap desperately in attempt to escape but its legs and arms were bound by chains cutting into its wrists and ankles and drawing out blood)_

It was like the deer Dean had found in the clearing in the past December. Barely alive, desperate to die. Crying with its eyes ripped from their sockets and blood was draining everywhere and the image would never leave.

Dean had traced the outline of Cas’ back, fingers gingerly running smoothly over his skin, searching for a reason to be worried, a reason for him to believe the nightmares could come true. But there were none, of course. It was just Cas.

Cas, who Dean would take on armies to protect. Cas, who had beautiful blue eyes that could peer into souls. Cas, a believer in a long forgotten god, who took time to write poetry, who was art in the human form.

There were no signs that maybe the wings could ever exist, appearing in the middle of the night and strangling Dean in the dark. It was all just Cas, who Dean loved. His Cas.

Because if the nightmares ever did come true,

_(it tries to fight for itself to save itself from the knife painting pictures)_

then that meant that Dean would be giving a choice.

Brother vs Lover.

And he never wanted it to come down to that.

_(i cant choose)_

This had to be a coincidence.

_(i dont have to choose)_

It had to be.

Cas was smiling shyly down at his feet, hands tucked casually into his pockets. The wings collapsed back into the folds of his jacket, perfectly concealed away. Hidden away, for now. Hopefully, not for a long time.

Cas took his seat again, Nichola still very ecstatic over the wings. Cas clasped his hands together neatly, body appearing relaxed, but Dean caught sight of thumbs fighting each other in his lap.

 _“So, Castiel, you are definitely full of surprises,”_ Nichola stated, beaming more than ever, _“Now that we had that thrilling experience, let’s move onto some questions. Tell me, now: how does it feel to be here, as tribute for District 1? And especially after having a victor as your older brother? Do you feel that it leaves you with any sort of advantage?”_

Cas didn’t answer straight away. A few seconds were placed in between, a concentrated furrow of his brows and biting his lip slightly. Dean was still startled by the wings appearance, but as his nerves began to settle down, he couldn’t help but bite his own.

 _“Like I said before,”_ Cas opened, slowly, the words rolling off his tongue, _“When Lucifer came home from his Games, all the cameras were mainly focussed on him. I’ve never minded this, however. Being the centre of attention was never my deal.”_

Dean let a faint smile show. Cas was gorgeous in the way he spoke, selecting what he was about to say with care, locking them together in a well strung sentence that flowed calmly. The way he grinned and wouldn’t really make eye contact with anyone, just at the ground or his shoes, chuckling from time to time. Dean couldn’t wait to get him alone again. Pull him into a tight embrace, whisper so many sweet things in his ear, kiss him up and down until they were dizzy. One last goodnight before—

“ _It’s odd, really. I’m not too sure how I feel about being voted in. I’m flattered that my district believes I can win, but it’s certainly intimidating. I can feel a lot of pressure coming down on me, because everyone has high expectations and wants me to be just like my brother. Which, I scan be the first to tell you, me and Luce are nothing alike.”_ Cas gave a content sigh. _“Sure, I’m on a bit of a higher hill because he’s had experience, but someone else’s experience can only take you so far. For most of this, I’ll be on my own.”_

Dean stole a quick side glance at Lucifer, to see if any of Cas’ comments had caused a reaction, but nothing had changed. The man still had a frozen layer of ice on him, unaffected.

Nichola was nodding in agreement when he looked back up. _“I’m sure you’re bound to do well. I’ve seen your skills, and they are 100% impressive! Now besides your family, because we know from Lucifer that you have quite a few older brothers, tell us about your friends back in 1. Are they anxious for you? Cheering for you? Any lovers lying in wait for your return?”_

There was a rise of pink in Cas’ cheeks. Dean was sure everyone caught it, but Nichola waited to point it out until Cas had answered in full. _“Well, I don’t have very many friends. The closest friend connection I have with anybody back home is Gabriel, and he’s family. I have classmates that are probably rooting for me, maybe more of them more jealous than proud. As for a lover…”_ Cas didn’t seem to be able to complete his sentence, that shy smile running back to him and eyes darting away.

_“… well. There is someone.”_

Cheers flared from the crowd, Nichola laughing loudly into the mic.

_“Ladies and gentlemen, Castiel Novak has got himself a sweetheart! Sorry, girls, looks like this cutie is taken.”_

Groans of disappointment arose, and Dean wanted to double over in a laughing fit, but kept himself as composed as he possibly could, disguising his full body shakes with coughs, eyes watering. For some reason, it was just hilarious that everyone was very envious of this mysterious lover, and Dean found it even more hilarious that _he_ was the mysterious lover.

Bobby clapped him hard on the back a few times. “You okay there, kiddo? Want me to call the ambulance?”

“Ah, shut up,” Dean wheezed, “I’m good. I’m good.”

 _“Tell us about them, Castiel!”_ the pink haired interviewer egged on, _“Come on. We want to hear the story!”_

Now Dean watched as the shift from relaxed quickly transformed into a form of discomfort on Cas’ face, the way he shimmied in his chair, the mic dropped down to his chest as he thought about how he was going to respond to the question. Dean swore he could hear the distant thundering of Cas’ heart, thundering away, creating a heavy drumbeat from underneath his ribs. He wondered if Cas would evidently push the question away entirely, back pedal, smile and move on.

But that’s not what happened at all.

Instead, he found one of the camera’s and stared into it, a playful grin catching on.

It was almost as if he were looking right at Dean.

Cas lifted the mic, a new confidence rising in his eyes and posture.

 _“There definitely is someone,”_ Cas repeated, never looking away, and Dean felt his chest squeeze and his heart leaped into his throat, _“I’m incredibly fortunate to have them. I look at them like they are sunshine. Breathtaking sunshine. I feel warmth whenever I’m near them, and the world seems brighter with them around. They are… they are the most beautiful person I have ever seen… None of the prettiest beaches or any of the most radiant stars could compare. I can’t believe that they would even want me…”_

The crowd gave a loving _awww_ from their seats. Dean’s eyes were transfixed on the screen, never breaking contact with Cas’, breath lost, heart racing.

Cas gave a small, kind laugh. _“They make me so happy,”_ he continued, _“They made me come to the realization what love is supposed to feel like, and I owe them everything. My heart, soul, my life. They gave me absolutely everything, a whole new universe, and God, I love them so much…”_

 _“How long have you been in love with this person?”_ Nichola questioned, sucked into every word Castiel spoke, leaning foreword in anticipation.

_“It hasn’t been long. People will judge you for that, falling in love so easily and so quickly. People tend to forget, though, that love isn’t something that can be simply measured, or weighed. It’s like time; not bound to the restrictions of physics or by the world. But its there. Demanding its presence be known. It’s not on a clock, not on short ropes. I may not have loved them for long, but for me, it feels like… centuries. Years and years that we have loved. It’s so very real to me.”_

Dean could feel the tears burning from behind his eyes, but he held them back, blinking rapidly to rid of them. They were a secret. A startling secret that could be used against them, and although Dean wanted to cry from the overwhelming joy Cas was giving to him, wanted to run to him and kiss him in front of everybody and tell him over and over again _Castiel Novak I love you goddamn it,_ he couldn’t.

They were a secret. The world’s greatest love story, and only two people knew.

No tears here. No tears here.

 _“Maybe we’ll get lucky,”_ Cas added, _“Maybe we’ll get a chance at our forever, after the force of numbered day weighing on us, the fact that I might die in this and I might never go home and they might never see me again. But maybe, we’ll get lucky. I wouldn’t mind at all if I got to wake up every morning next to them, because every morning I would get my perfect sunrise. I’d do it, over and over again with them… if they want to…”_

The worst thing to hear in someone’s voice is the cracking right before they start to cry, and Cas’ voice was indeed breaking. It wasn’t an act. It was poetry. Not of the loud kind, like the songs Dean sang, not boastful or saddening. It was hopeful. A light at the end of a dark tunnel that they have been trying to escape from, running down, clawing at the walls to find the way out.

It wasn’t dark poetry. Beautiful enough to cause the entire destruction and rebirth of stars, to bring even the greatest of rulers to their knees. Beautiful and powerful enough to give a broken man hope.

Always with hope.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to live forever, or to die right in this second, if that meant that forever and that second were spent with Cas. Dean just knew he wanted to be with him for however long they had.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

Nichola and Cas exchanged a few more questions and answers, none of which Dean could hear, still wrapped in Castiel’s speech about him, a thousand butterflies trapped in his stomach, all attempting to fly away at once.

It’s a wonderful feeling to be loved.

Dean waited against the wall, Bobby making some sort of sarcastic comments about how shitty the interviews really were, but Dean paid them no mind. He just waited for Cas to come back into the room.

Soon enough, the female from District 2 left and Cas went back to standing by his brother, Lucifer grinning and patting his shoulder. He noticed that Cas stole a quick peek up at Dean, and before he turned away, Dean sent him a sly wink. Cas grinned, did that lip biting thing again, and looked to the ground.

Then Dean got a very dangerous idea.

“I’m going to the bathroom, be right back,” he told Bobby, not waiting for approval, and out the door before Bobby could mutter “idjit.”

Dean walked steadily down the hall. Strangely enough, they were empty. He guessed they were all busy watching inside, because not another soul besides him wandered these ghostly white tiles.

Well. Him and one other, shoes clicking with every step behind him. Dean smirked, but didn’t turn to face his follower just yet. He also didn’t lie. The men’s bathroom was his destination. He turned the corner, stalker closing in on him. Dean pushed the door open, strutted inside, Cas right behind him.

“I was wondering if you’d catch my hint,” Dean chuckled at him. Cas shrugged.

“It was hard to miss. I’ve never seen such obvious flirting, even from you,” he said, “At the most, we only have fifteen minutes in here before someone comes looking for us. What do you want to do?”

“Well, first of all,” Dean licked at his lips, walked towards Cas and snuck his arms around his waist, “I think you deserve some thanks.”

He felt Cas melt into him when they kissed, relaxing, trusting. “Did you like it?” Cas asked quietly, grabbing Dean’s hands and intertwining their fingers, gently pushing Dean up against the wall.

“Cas, if I hadn’t been in a room full of people, I would’ve fell to the ground sobbing. And don’t roll your eyes at me like that, because I mean it. Cas… That was beautiful. It means so much to me. Thank you.”

His voice had faded into nothing more than a soft whisper, and Cas met his eyes.

“I meant it, too,” Cas breathed. “I really do love you, Dean.”

Dean tightened the space between them, their lips just brushing together, trailing over each other. He felt Cas shiver underneath his touch.

“I love you, too.”

He tilted his head, and they were locked again, with their tender kisses, Dean brushing away fallen strands of hair from Cas’ face, smiling.

“Still want me to come down tonight?” he inquired.

“Dean, since when have I denied you away? Even if it weren’t our last night on Earth, I’d want you with me.”

Dean leaned foreword, gently whispered into Castiel’s ear, “Okay,” and lightly brushed his lips against his neck.

Things went faster after that point, before either of the two could stop themselves. Suddenly, Dean had hoisted Cas up on the bathroom counter, Cas’ legs hugging his waist, mouths tearing into one another. Dean had half a mind to strip, right there, fuck Cas senseless, ignore the rest of the goddamn world because what does it matter, anyway? It means nothing. The people, the events, nothing matters when it’s your last night to be a good man. When it’s your last night on Earth as a human, not yet walking the surface as a demon turned by war. What did matter was that they buried themselves six feet deep in everything that did.

Make it a good one.

“Cas,” Dean moaned softly, “Cas. Don’t you leave me, please Cas. God, I love you so much, I’m begging you, please don’t leave me…”

Cas cupped the man’s face with his hands, thumbs running over the new stubble of Dean’s jaw. “I’m not,” he hushed, “I promise you I will not leave you. Nobody will take me, and I don’t want to go. Not even the Games will tear me from you. I promise. I promise…”

And Dean sighed in relief, laughing quietly. And now, he did start crying. It wasn’t with shaking sobs and cries though, but his green eyes reflected clear pools of water on their stunning green that contained galaxies behind them. Here in front of him was someone, straddling him on a bathroom counter, sweating in a clever suit and tie. Someone who he wouldn’t mind being on an alter with in a few years, when they were finically stable, somewhere out of Panem where no one could find them, where they would never witness another round of the Hunger Games. Just them, and Sam, and Cas’ brother Gabriel. A place where everyday he could run to Cas, pick him up and swing him around, hold him tight and close, with the reassurance that everything was going to be okay in the end.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

A place where he could repeat Castiel’s name, a million times over and never get sick of it because each time he said it it was like tasting candy and brisk winter air and he wanted that taste forever. He wanted to say that name and a _I love you_ to follow it until every star in the sky caved, because that was Dean’s perfect forever looked like. It wasn’t acting. It never would be.

Dean smiled, biting on his lip, hands wandering freely up and down Cas’ thighs, Cas laughing along with him.

Love is strange. It’s giving, it’s ungrateful, a knife and a pillow all at the same time. Breaks us down, builds us up, gives us both reason to live and die.

And here was the special kind of love, where, for the moment, nothing hurt, and nobody was broken. Exactly what love should be.

***

They used every single second of their short time together in the bathroom, returning to the room behind the stage, with a three minute cushion between them. Dean entering first, Cas following behind. Nobody, surprisingly, gave them odd or suspicious looks, and it was most likely due to the fact that everyone’s eyes were still glued to the television, heavily focussed on the tribute. Cas recognized it at the girl from 4, a snarky faced brunette named Megan Masters.

Lucifer would only make small remarks on the tributes that came and went, analyzing carefully, sometimes turning to Cas and stating what already makes them weak or strong as a fighter, both in the physical and mental ideals. That was one of his biggest strategies for winning his Games. He would watch his opponents and all aspects of their personality, the way they spoke or walked, the way they carried themselves. Even if someone had pulled everything into one giant act, faked every second, he’d still be capable of reading them like a children’s book. Cas was grateful that his brother didn’t take notice in the messiness of his hair or the looseness of his clothing. If he did, he didn’t mention it.

People entered on the stage, gave whatever they had to offer, and then were quickly replaced by another. Face after face, passing by and out of time and for some reason they would talk and Cas would have a tough time remembering what they even looked like five seconds after they left. Like they disappeared somewhere and Cas just couldn’t reach them. An untouchable void that clouded his thoughts, that he couldn’t get in touch with and find meaning to why these people—kids, just like him—meant absolutely nothing.

Why did he feel like that?

Well, maybe that’s because it’s exactly what Panem thought of him. Of all of them. Ultimately, all these twenty-four ever were, were faces up on a screen. For a split instant, they were somebody. Their name did not go unknown during the Games, and the moment that their cannon fires away in that arena, they’re gone again. Never to be resurrected. Forever an easily forgotten child, another forgotten face.

That’s all they were.

Cas wished that he had a pen with him, so he could write his thoughts down, because it were times like now that his thoughts made some sense and weren’t just nonsense ramblings. Something worth making a poem from, a valid thought that bloomed a burning passion inside. Dean was right. Although not always, Cas spoke in poetry. The world was his typewriter and he was anxious to have his fingers fly away at the keys, in an attempt to make a point, convince people through the art form he new and worshipped. Perhaps all of his words were just a coping mechanism, a way to deal with this place until he could walk away from it one day like an ugly, orphaned painting that had lost all its love many years ago. Maybe that’s why he chose to write.

Or maybe it was because in the background of the painting, there was a small detail that stood out in the corner. Some bright, something colourful that your eye just found and now you can’t look away for fear you might look back to see that it’s suddenly missing and you’ll never see it again. Maybe the reason Castiel wrote poetry was because there were people, details, like Dean Winchester. And it was Dean who he wished was standing next to him, with his arms crossed and eyebrow cocked, shoulders slack, and not Luce. It was Dean that he wanted with him, to not be separated by this few feet of space, trying not to steal a glance as often.

A wonderful detail in a grey work of art.

It felt like centuries before it was Dean’s time. Cas had been watching Becky Rosen’s interview, half focussed on what she was saying, shyly, stuttering wildly. Cas felt a ping of pity for her. Maybe even more than that, maybe it was sympathy. Empathy, to go that far. She was so young, thrown into a war so big and really who can blame a small girl from District 12 of being so nervous her body literally shook from it. She wasn’t trained for this like Cas and Anna were. She was no soldier. 

Poor little girl.

He wondered if she had siblings. Waiting parents, hoping, praying, probably aware that Becky was destined for death when Naomi called out her name. Cas wondered if there were people crying for her everyday.

Because he remembered crying for Hael. Everyday, when she was sick. Coughing. Spewing blood and her big brown eyes were so dilated that they appeared black, her tiny figure that was too weak to start with to even try and fight away the disease.

Cas cried every single damn day, hoping beyond all hope that maybe some miracle would pull through. A miracle with just enough power to propel her back into life. However, that’s not how God planned it.

As much as Cas begged on his hands and knees, screaming at the sky, God did not answer the day little Hael finally gave out. That little spark that riddled darkness for so long, now dead, buried in their backyard, in a tiny, fire engine red coffin. Hael was not destined to be Cas’ miracle.

And he could only imagine, that the people waiting for Becky to come home safe wanted the exact same thing. A miracle that only someone high as a level as God could pull off. And he could only imagine their dreaded disappointment, their unwanted grief when their faith in an impossible miracle refused to happen.

Wouldn’t it be incredible, if for once, everybody lived? If, for once, they could save everybody?

Hasn’t there been enough sadness to last them all?

Before he knew it, Becky had come back into the room, and Dean made his way out, wearing a small smirk to match his cocky attitude. As he passed, Cas wanted to reach out, take Dean’s hand, rub his thumb over Dean’s rough knuckles, smile at him sweetly and let him know that it’s going to be okay, but Cas did none of those things. And Dean left the room, and suddenly, Cas felt so alone. So very alone.

He felt even more alone when Dean was up on stage, and Cas was behind the television, and now it felt as though the two were in two totally different worlds. Far away, still longing for each other, and they could just barely feel it because of all these invisible miles parting them.

Yet, at the same time, it was like watching a blazing comet soar over head, leaving an amazing trail of light rocket behind them. Dean really was an amazing part of the universe. Both that shooting star that left you breathless, as well as a small earth, slaving under a tired sun. He was a gentle place, a broken place and a solid place, who shouldn’t be so important and who wasn’t perfect but who was so full of life and love and awestruck. A little, run down place that just needed the lights to go off for a minute or two, so he could get that clear view of a clear night sky, the twinkling angels high up above. Angels that would heal the galaxy of those freckles and blond hair, that would kiss the scars away, fall asleep next to them with their fingers intertwined.

He looked ever so enchanting up there, under the wave of the spotlight. The dark makeup revealed the vast green landscapes of his eyes, made his teeth shine when he smiled, caused Castiel’s heart to skip a beat.

A boy with the weight of trying to make it home on his shoulders. A man in the wilderness, a soldier who needed to survive this war.

Dean gave the crowd a two-fingered salute, leaning on one leg in a relaxed pose, and was met by an onrush of cheers and whistles, and Dean chuckled. Nichola took Dean’s hand, shaking it firmly in his own.

 _“Here he is!”_ he announced, almost boastfully, _“The nation’s very own Escape Artist!”_

There were snickers from the observers, and even Cas couldn’t help but to crack a smile. Nichola went to take a seat in his chair, and Dean looked to his with some hesitation, before finally sitting casually on the arm, one ankle crossed over his knee.

 _“So, Dean Winchester,”_ Nichola began, giggling slightly, _“First of all, how are you? You are incredibly dashing tonight. Fantastic suit! I’m pretty sure the whole country is on edge staring at you, because you’re just so cute we could eat you up.”_

Dean tossed back his head, body shaking in a full hearted laughter. _“So far? I’m good, man. I’m doing really good. And thank you on your kind comments towards my outfit, and thank you to Ellen, my stylist. A true artist, who puts her entire soul into making me look pretty.”_ Dean waved to someone within range of the first couple rows, and Cas guess that it was meant for Ellen. He had never met her personally, but he could imagine her with a proud expression radiating off of her, arms folded and hair pulled back. Truthfully, she should be proud. Cas hoped she was, because Ellen did what Cas thought to have been impossible: fabricate a way to make Dean into even more of a beautiful man. _With_ gold glitter on his cheeks.

_“Well, all of the congratulations to you, Ms. Harvelle. Your work is more than excellent!”_

Cas forced himself to hold back a shaky breath, Lucifer almost squinting up at the screen, consistently tucking his hands into his pockets before pulling them out again to either hang by his sides or have his fingers fiddle amongst themselves. He hadn’t spoken for a while, and that made Cas somewhat concerned.

“Hey, Castiel?”

The younger brother nearly jumped from his skin at the sudden address. “Y-yes?”

“I want you to stay away from that Winchester kid,” Luce muttered, a tone in his voice that Cas didn’t quite recognize and didn’t quite like or understand. “Between now and until the end of the Games, I don’t want you to talk to him, associate with him, ally with him, nothing. Avoid him.” 

Cas felt his shoulders tense up, and his chest tightened, hands balling into fists not out of anger, but out of plain and simple fear. “Why is that?”

“Because I don’t like how comfortable he is with the whole scene,” Luce responded, clicking his tongue. “Because he seems too at ease. Not like the others. The others at least were faced with some kind of a challenge. They slipped up on words, found trouble answering questions, stalled at unnecessary times and points. But not him. There’s something that’s off about him…”

“It’s only the beginning of his interview,” Cas interjected, “I think it’s been a long day, brother. You’re jumping too quickly to conclusions now.”

Luce didn’t answer right away. Thoughts seemed to be running through his head, analyzing, searching for… something. Perhaps anything at all.

“And, besides,” Cas added factually, “The way he’s acting isn’t that far off from the way I portrayed myself up there. Calm, attempting to put on a good show.”

“Yes, but the difference between you and him,” Lucifer spouted, “Is that you told a massive lie about a girlfriend back home, and everybody can be good at lying. Winchester just seems too willing to spill everything. I don’t like that smug grin on him.”

_(its not love just lust)_

Cas swallowed hard, feeling dehydrated and throat dry and suddenly feeling very dizzy. A faint chill shot through him.

_(its love not lust)_

_It wasn’t a lie, though._

“But I convinced them,” Cas whispered, “That’s what matters.”

_I was up there, in front of a million eyes and a million understandings of judgement, and I confessed my undying love to that boy. He is my sunshine, my beautiful, beautiful Dean. I confessed to the world my love for the boy who took my virginity, the boy I slept with for the very first time. The boy I even kissed for the first time. I love him. The boy who understands me like you never did._

_I never lied._

_I never lied._

“Luce, why don’t you go back to your room in the tower,” Cas suggested, carefully selecting what he should say, “Get some early sleep. These last few weeks have been long for the two of us. The weeks upon us will be even longer.”

Lucifer chuckled. “Funny. I should be saying that to you. After all, you’re the one getting their ass thrown in tomorrow.”

“It’s fine. Really, though, you need it.” Cas smiled, placed a hand on Luce’s shoulder gently. “I can take it from here. Go get some rest.”

Now, Cas stood alone, back pressed against the wall, feeling very lonely indeed. It seems that everyone else had the same idea, and the back room was empty, for all except him. A lonely body standing in empty space.

 _“Dean, would you do us the honour of indulging us,”_ Nichola’s voice reached Cas’ ears, and he reverted his attention back to the TV, _“in the story of how you became the Escape Artist? Where did the clever nickname arise from?”_

 _“It came from pure panic,”_ Dean sighed, biting at his lip, still smiling wildly, _“Like, I can barely describe it. It was the first night that I was away from home. Scariest thing for me is to be away from my little brother for too long. The Games terrified me, too, for as long as I could remember… I just thought that maybe I should walk out. Leave. So I did, right through the front doors, and watched to see how far I could get. Not very far, I figured out.”_

He finished the tale with a filtering sadness, hand rushing to rub at the back of his neck, eyes to the floor.

Of course that wasn’t the entirety of it. Cas wouldn’t complain, though. It’s not like he would just disclose that Chuck had stole a whole length of rope for him, which he would take and scale the tower with, stopping only to visit Cas’ window. He’d give to much away. There was some satisfaction, though, in knowing that it was always going to be _their_ story. Not shared with anyone else. Just Cas and Dean. Their beginning chapter. No, no maybe not the beginning. That went farther back, all the way back to when their names were called out for the Games, when their Districts threw them to the dogs. When Dean sacrificed himself for Sam and Castiel was reading the Book on the swing set that morning, sun coming down on his face, warmth spreading through him.

The escape was their defining moment. The moment that caused dominos to fall at the hands of mere men, that ended the world, the foundation of the apocalypse. To everyone else, those pages were torn straight from the spine, and they only knew bits and pieces. However, two people memorized those pages, carrying them whoever they went. Always.

 _“Now, Dean, let’s quickly recap for the folks at home on why you’re here in the first place,”_ Nichola went on, the excitement dying down, _“As most of us are aware, during the Reaping there were two names in the bowl. Yours and your brother’s. When the people raised their hands to vote for a second time, you volunteered before they could officially make the choice. Can you tell us, when you decided to do this, what was running through your head?”_

Dean’s grin faltered, attempted to regain itself through a nervous laugh but couldn’t quite recover. Cas could see the way he was thinking, jaw tense as he was gritting his teeth, biting at his lip.

It was a touchy subject. Dean really ever mentioned it around anyone, not even with Cas, when the nights were long and he couldn’t go to sleep and he was too tired to care, and when he missed Sam. Sometimes he would wake up to the sound of Dean’s muttering, the dreams becoming vocal through his voice, silent screams, _I volunteer as tribute._ Cas never pushed him to talk about it, but always was worried that maybe something big was going on in that mind of his. Something dark, a battle within himself.

For a minute, he believed that Dean was just going to brush it all off. Pick up his game again, smile, shake his head and say the good ol’ _no comment_ line and move right along.

But it was the last time that Panem would see him how he was: a brave boy. A wonderful, charming, beautiful boy, with a soul that could light the vastness of space, make everything seem whole again.

It was the last time Sam would see him as a good man.

_(speak now or forever hold your peace)_

_“It was the most terrifying thing in my life,”_ Dean said, very quietly, _“I mean, I didn’t expect it to come down to us two. The odds for us tying like that… that had to of been a million to one, but hey, guess we just got unlucky. Hehe. Should of seen it coming, I suppose. We’re the unluckiest bastards on the planet._

_“But I was so scared. Between me and Sam, Sam has always been the better fighter, the better hunter. Everybody in 12 knows this. I… I had trouble killing animals, but Sam was unbelievably good. Of course the votes would lean more to his side. They’re playing to win, right? But I wasn’t willing for them to use my baby brother as a playing card that might catch fire. Not on my life.”_

Around them, the stadium fell into a state of an almost complete silence, with only faint moths of fluttering breaths with consistent buzzing. And up until now, Cas didn’t realize how much Dean talked with his hands. One would be clutching to the mic, and the other would be animating invisible pictures, painting away at things no one could see, and yet, it was one of the most fascinating things Cas had watched Dean do. They way he moved with fluency, probably not notching he was even doing it on a conscious level. His hands worked magic in the air, they drew art, they spoke like their own persons, all speaking the same tale, causing Cas’ breathing to hitch.

 _“He’s pretty much all I’ve got, back home,”_ Dean continued, _“When we were both very young, our mother died in a house fire. And my dad… well, my dad faded away after that, became lost and too wrapped up in her death to give much of a damn about us. Almost my whole life he’s been my responsibility. Hell, I practically raised the kid on my own. I wouldn’t be able to take it if it were him in this room, trying to construct thoughts and string them into sentences in an attempt to impressive the crowd. If he was the one going to be fighting to live tomorrow morning.”_

Dean blinked once, twice, and the turned to face a camera dead on. A downcast smile worked it’s way onto his mouth. “And I know he’s watching this, as much as I would rather him not. It’s horrifying, all of this. I mean, I once had a friend reaped for the Games, and it tore me apart from the insides when he was killed. It’s horrifying, and I don’t want him to witness any of it, just… just in case if things don’t go as planned, then I don’t want him to see any of that. But he’s the most stubborn kid I know. He’d want to know I’m safe constantly. Can be a bit paranoid, and, frankly, I don’t exactly blame him.”

At this point, Dean paused, took a deep breath.

He finally got a chance to send his message home.

 _“Sammy, I have a million things I want to say to you, and trust me, I’m tempted to say them all. Most of them can wait though until I see you again, so we’ll just cut to the chase. Now, there’s not a lot of promises I can make you with the situation I’m in, because I don’t want to give you hope when it’s too early top see the outcome, but there are some exceptions. I promise I’m not just gonna give up on you in there. I promise, I won’t let them take me easily, not without my fist in their face first. Because, if I do go down, I’ll go down swinging, guns blazing, hell raising. I love you, kiddo. I told you that before I left and I’m telling you now, and I swear to God I’ll do my best to make it home to you. Get some sleep, go to school. Date that cute girl, hope you manned up enough to ask her out. Just keep your head up.”_ He smirked, and this time, it was really Dean. Cocky, son-of-a-bitch Dean Winchester shone through the heavy clouds, raining down that sunshine that brought rivers upon rivers of joy to Cas and made everything seem okay.

_“Give Dad a hard time for me.”_

It was still painfully obvious, the hurt on Dean’s face, the way he tried to stitch it together to keep himself from falling away like a paper man in the wind. It aged him. Separated from one of the only good things he’s ever known back in 12, the most important person. He gave up everything for Sam. Missed the brother he had to protect, who was his mission to protect with everything he had.

Brave, brave Dean Winchester.

And, quickly, fluently like the movements of his talkative hands, the pain was masked behind a new expression, full of the bright comet that had crashed landed onto the stage, returning from the dark pit of some far off black hole.

Nichola asked him more questions. What he thought of the Capitol ( _“Big, man. Impressive,”_ which Cas knew for a fact was a big fat lie), what he did for a living ( _“Exactly what everybody else in that town does. We mine until we die and our bones turn to coal,”_ ) and if he had any hobbies, to which Dean took pleasure in describe his love of reading and being a musician.

_“A musician? First your all outright beautiful and now we figure out you’re musically talented? What do you play?”_

_“Guitar, mostly,”_ Dean pitched, _“I used to play piano as well, but we lost our baby grand in the same fire that took our mom, so I could only practice if I begged the mayor if I could borrow his for a few hours a week. Sometimes I sing.”_

Nichola gave a sly grin. _“Well, Mr. Winchester, we still got a bit of time left on your interview. Do you think you could sing for us tonight? How many people would love to hear the Escape Artist sing for us?”_

Both a round of applause as well as squeals and scream shot from the Capitol citizens, but Dean shook his head. _“Nah. I’m not that good. You guys don’t want to hear me.”_

Nichola, however, protested. _“Oh, come on, son. Please! We’re dying over here to hear something sweet!”_

Dean sat back, leaning into the chairs back, and he appeared to be considering the idea.

But Cas knew better.

He’d already made his choice, way before the question was even asked.

 _“You know what? Why not?”_ he finally said, standing, dusting off his sleeves. Cheering washed over the audio. Cas smiled to himself, folding his arms together, chuckled a little. This was going to be rather exciting to see, yet at the same time, Cas couldn’t help but feel a ping of jealousy. Dean always sang for him. It felt special and meant for him, like Dean wouldn’t share it with anyone else. And Cas reminded himself that he was feeling silly, but no matter how much he wanted it to go, the envy wavered with him.

 _“Although,”_ said Dean, _“You really gotta cut me some slack. I’m writing this new song, and it’s still only a work in progress.”_

 _“Oh course! Of course!”_ Nichola agreed, the growing delight shining on his cheeks. _“A song you wrote yourself? That’s wonderful! I was wondering though if you could give us some context? What’s it about?”_

 _“Who,”_ Dean corrected, _“It’s actually a song I wrote for somebody. Somebody I care about very much. Someone worthy of music.”_

Nichola gave a low whistle. _“Dean Winchester, are you telling me that you have a lover?”_

Dean didn’t answer, just smiled shyly at the floor, and Nichola threw his hands up in joy.

_“Oh, goodness me! This is spectacular! Well, your dearest is very lucky to have you. Their boyfriend getting up in front of the entire world, performing a song written just for them!”_

Dean chuckled. And in the back room, Cas’ heart began to gallop in his chest, pounding and punching against his ribs, wanting to desperately break free of their cage and fly to the green eyed boy, straight into his arms.

 _“We’re incredibly lucky to have one another,”_ Dean said softly, _“They had become my refuge during a time when I was sure I was going to stop breathing, a time when I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it through the day. And wow, I… I love them so much and they’re walking poetry on legs…”_

Castiel gasped. “Oh, wow,” he whispered to himself, “Oh…”

 _“I told them that I’d write them a song. They’re the kind of person us musicians love to write songs about. I could go on and write albums upon albums about them and their face, the way they speak and entrance you with their mere ideas, their eyes… oh, man, those eyes are gorgeous, Nick. I can’t even begin to describe them to you. I could get lost in them and never want to be found. Like they’re the ocean and I’m desperate to drown.”_  

The camera panned momentarily to the audience, revealing teary eyes and watery makeup and many, many tissues being exchanged.

As for Cas, there were tears on his face, too, but the awestruck smile beneath them only grew.

“Oh, Dean… You incredible, wonderful boy…”

Dean winked at the camera once again. _“I told them they’d be getting a surprise. Well, this is a part of it.”_

Then, Dean started to sing.

_“At first, I didn’t like the idea_

_That maybe we would fall in love._

_So scared that I was going to collapse,_

_so scared I’d watch you go first,_

_my sun, my stars, I never want to be left in the dark._

 

 

_I’ll hold you close to the end of our lives,_

_I’ll shield you from all these horrors, tonight_

_Save those eyes and that soul that’s so bright,_

_I can kiss you all the time, if that’s alright with you._

 

_I would burn in hell,_

_I would bring down heaven,_

_I’d fight God himself and all the demons, too_

_All the madmen in the world won’t stop me_

_From loving you._

 

_I’ll let none of the monsters touch you,_

_you and your beautiful eyes,_

_Cause baby, you’re my angel,_

_Saving grace,_

_and I’ll fight the good fight for you._

 

_You’ve got wings spanning the horizon,_

_I wanna see you fly,_

_Because, love, you light up my world like sunshine…_

_Tonight.”_

 

 

An enormous ovation came over the stadium. People stood, people gave their hallelujahs and praises, whooping at Dean’s beautiful song. Dean grinned and waved, bowing, blowing a kiss before exiting off the stage.

All except for Cas.

There was Cas, standing in that room, with his back pressed up against the wall, both hands rushed to his mouth, trying to contain the sobs and his eyes were squeezed shut as the tears came through.

A short song. A beautiful song, sung by God’s favourite, to which a million songbirds could not compare.

Dean had written that song for Cas. And Cas couldn’t help but cry. Overwhelming joy swooping over him, laughter mixed with weeping. His knees gave in and he slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, holding himself and smiling so wildly and so brightly.

He had never been so happy in his life.

What a brave and beautiful boy Dean Winchester was. A brave and beautiful boy with lyrics on his tongue that could swoon every angel in heaven, and Cas still couldn’t believe that it was about him. The one he loved truly, truly loved him back.

It was the best damn surprise Cas could ever dare to hope for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took me a lot longer than I thought it would.
> 
> Please excuse the long wait, I'm so sorry! I was away for part of the month so it took away some writing time. I'll try and be swift for the next one! 
> 
> I hope that everyone enjoys this chapter. I've reached a huge milestone with it (reaching over 100 000 words and over 200 pages,) and plus I really liked writing their love confessions for one another.
> 
> Closing in on the Games soon... One more chapter.
> 
> -Marina


	18. Chapter 18

**Everything Will Be Alright in the End**

It’s strange, to suddenly remember the words to an old lullaby. You tend to forget them as the world weighs you down, sinks you, and sweet memories of mothers singing have become so incredibly distant, that you can’t seem to tell if it was all some sort of sweet dream or not. You tend to try and reclaim the words, the simple rhyme that lulled you to sleep years and years before, but now it was just too far gone to retrieve anymore, and your mother has disappeared, and your brother attempted to keep it alive, and yet you do not know the words. They have become unimportant.

But not now.

Not now, with Cas sitting on the foot of his bed, fingers curled tightly into the neatly spread sheets, overrun with a headache and sore red eyes. Heart crashing, ecstatic, floating into an oblivion he could not reach, along with that ancient song. Lost, maybe. No one can really be sure. A place he could not reach, yet it was coming back. It was all coming back.

His cheeks were stiff, too, caused from all the smiling he had been doing during the past hour, lips unable to fall down even through the veil of tears, with Dean’s voice in his head, becoming a favourite record that he never wanted to come to an end. It was a kind of music that lived on its own, so full of life and so alive within itself it could walk on two feet and soar. It filled Cas’ mouth with clear water, and his lungs with fresh air. Planted faith in something besides an invisible god for once. Planted faith that grew like pretty flowers in spring, faith in something human, and to have faith in humans is to acknowledge hope, to _know_ hope.

A desire to fight. A desperate need for life.

To be loved by someone so fair…

It was hard to stop crying, and Cas really tried to stop, muttering on to himself, “It’s okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to keep crying because everything is okay right now. It’s all okay.” However, he didn’t come to find his own reassurance helpful, and the tears kept right on spilling, rolling down his shining face and refusing to leave, hands wiping away consistently, and that did him no good because it was like trying to block a river from bursting through a worn out dam. There’s no holding it back. His chest trembled and hurt each time he breathed, weary from the long day, yet he felt very alive.

God. He felt so _alive_.

When Dean had exited the stage after his performance, Cas moved heaven and earth in an attempt to find him, to even see him face too face, clarify that it wasn’t just a dream, because dreams are full of wonderful, lure you in before snatching them away from you without warning, and then you’re left with an emptiness that lingers and eats into your lungs until you feel so suffocated that you fade away. Cas needed to know for sure that Dean wasn’t lying when he said he loved him, needed to be sure that all of his song and every word wasn’t just created to fake him out.

_It can’t be a dream._

But it more than definitely felt like a dream. A blissful, blissful dream that gave Cas the feeling of sinking into a warm bath at the end of the day, and the feeling of fingers intwined in his.

It struck him to be a dream, because of its unrealistic perfection, yet he refused to believe it was anything short of a miracle.

He was awake, and he was more alive than ever. Wet hair stuck to his forehead and neck, a fresh pair of soft clothes on his skin, sitting at the foot of the bed and he couldn’t stop crying.

Cas had even sat the Book down in his lap, flipped the pages, any verse or chapter that could lower him back to Earth from this strange high, but the words had become blurred and jumbled and nothing made sense, because all he could think about was Dean Winchester and that one song.

_You’re the kind of person that deserves a song written about them._

A lullaby was stuck in his head, one he hadn’t been able to remember for years, and suddenly it came back, rushed from his childhood, from the nights he would be tucked in by the faint outline of his mother, later by Gabriel. Here and now, for whatever reason, Cas had the two most important songs stuck in his head.

Is this what happiness is?

Is happiness when you can’t stop weeping over joy? When forgotten things from the past greet you with warm arms, because the present has resurrected them? Is that what happiness is?

A pair of knuckles knocked against glass.

On most nights, Cas would give a little jump at the sound, startled by the sound and always caught off guard by the sight of Dean hanging upside down outside his window, harnessed only by a single length of rope and with a red face. But tonight, it was a bit different. Cas lifted his head, a wild grin spreading across his face, sprinting to unlatch the window, a cool breeze entering the room.

Dean waved. “Hey, Cas,” he said, swaying slightly in the calm wind.

“Hey,” was all Cas could manage, in a soft breath.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long. I hurried out of the auditorium as fast as I could make it, but man, there was like ten thousand people rammed into that building and I practically had to fight my way out.”

The younger just laughed, shook his head. “I don’t mind at all,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss Dean in that perfect atmosphere, the sounds of the city faintly playing in the background of their fast paced hearts.

Chuckling, Dean muttered, “Now, this is really pulling off Spiderman.”

“You still have to explain that to me, you nerd.”

“I do,” Dean smiled, turning himself upright with the rope as a puppeteer would with strings, and lowered himself onto the carpet, barefoot, clad in his casual fray t-shirt and sweats. Despite the shower he had run himself through, Cas could still see tiny glints of glitter sparkling through his blond hair and reflected from his freckles. “I do, Mary Jane.” Dean took a small stride in towards Cas, their foreheads brought together in a smooth crash after Dean placed his lips on the skin between Cas’ eyes. Cas sighed, hands resting on Dean’s chest, curled slightly.

“Dean,” Cas started, trying his best not to get lost in the warmth of Dean’s arms, “Did you… did you really write that song for me?”

“Of course,” Dean laughed, “There’s no one else it would be about, no one else I would want it to be about…”

He pressed his mouth against Castiel’s for a minute, drowning peacefully, steadily, without struggle or need for air. The water that they found each other was more comforting than on land where they walked alone.

“Did you like it?” Dean asked, his question not more than a nervous whisper.

“Dean, it was… Oh, god, Dean, it was perfect,” Cas said, barely able to contain his excitement, “So perfect. I… I don’t even know what to say…”

He felt the rough pads of Dean’s thumbs brush underneath his eyes, and realized that there were tears leaking once again, and he cursed himself inside for not being able to stop. But it appeared that Dean didn’t mind at all.

“Then don’t say anything,” Dean shushed gently, with a kind smile. “You don’t have to say anything, that’s okay. I’m just so happy you like it, and I promise I’ll finish it one day for you. And I’ll sing it for you whenever you’d like me to, because goddam it Cas, you are more than worthy of any words I have to say.”

Their voices became shushed after that, masked in kisses, thoughts and sentences lost under moans and gasps. Dean had Cas pinned against the wall, not wanting to break apart.

Ultimately, this was their last night on earth.

The last night they could stay rightfully human, before being thrown in with the demons. The last night before their souls and hearts go ripped end to end, before they transformed into monsters. Exactly what the Capitol wanted them to be.

Monsters that children feared in the night.

Cas ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, pulling back to get a glimpse of those bright green eyes, smiling, watching Dean do the same, catching every detail. The slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way he seemed to make everything alright. Salvation in that smile.

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” Cas whispered. “I love you, and I am so glad I met you.”

Dean chuckled. “I guess there was something good about the Games after all,” he muttered, hands finding Cas’, clinging to them. “I hate them. I hate watching them every year, they’d drive me insane. My best friend got swept into them and never came home, my brother almost ended up here. The thing is, without them I don’t think I’d ever have fallen in love with you, Cas…”

“A blessing within a curse,” Cas added softly, and Dean nodded subtly.

“Yeah. It is a bit of an unlucky curse. But then there’s you. You’re not part of my curse.”

Cas let his hands wander up Dean’s shirt, feeling the tight skin from underneath, gently grazing over his scars, and he felt Dean relax under his touch.

“You’re family, now,” Dean continued, “My friend, my… boyfriend,” he paused as Cas smirked at the remark, “Shut up. Anyways… I’m glad I met you, Castiel. It’s weird.” He swallowed out of a dry throat and a full mind, “Why did I fall in love with you here, out of every damn place in the world, I met you in the worst place possible.”

Cas took a moment to think about it.

A very good question Dean was asking. If soul mates ran into each other on the battle front with guns thrusted into their arms, what was the reason for that? Weren’t soul mates supposed to find each other in flower shops, or at the riverside, and fall in love and live to see the end of it?

Why did they get the short end of the stick?

“Because the universe isn’t fair,” Cas finally concluded, “We just have to do the best we can with what we’re given.” He lifted Dean’s shirt above his head now, exposing him, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I was given something wonderful, and I don’t think the universe counted on that.”

Dean tossed his head back and laughed. “Castiel, you poetic angel—”

Rather suddenly, the smile collapsed from his face, the laughter died. For a split second, the happiness had decided to flee. Run off, scared away. Of course, within the next instant, it came back, and it almost could have been a flash of Cas’ imagination.

But Cas knew better.

“Dean, what’s wrong? And don’t you say nothing, because I am not a fool,” he stated further, when Dean averted his eyes to the carpet.

Cas had a sinking feeling that he knew what is was, what Dean was trying desperately trying to hide away in some dark pit. He could feel it rush off Dean’s body in some odd sort of way.

“It’s your nightmares, isn’t it?”

When all he got was the sound of silence, Cas sighed.

“Dean, it’s okay,” he whispered, resting his hands on Dean’s waist, “I know that you’re thinking that they’re dreams and can’t hurt you when you’re awake. But they’re doing things to you. Little things. The way you move, the way you talk, how carefully you choose your next words, and when you fumble or forget, it comes back and haunts you. And it’s going to keep haunting you unless you let me try and help you.”

Dean took a deep breath, exhaled. Exhaustion was taking its hold on him, too. He rubbed his eyes, smiling lightly.

“Fucking mind reader,” he mumbled. Cas took hold of his hands, and walked towards the bed, leading him there and taking a seat on the edge, Dean following suit in a quiet fashion.

“They started sometime after I met you,” Dean started, voice incredibly quiet. Vulnerable. “I have no idea why, or how, but they just waltzed in like they fucking owned me. The first one I had was the night before… before us happened, and it just… God, Cas, it messed with me.”

“What happened?” Cas asked softly.

Dean reached and pulled back the bed covers, crawling into them, Cas shuffling after him. They faced each other with their heads on the pilliows, hands mingling restlessly, connecting, disconnecting. A never ending movement of skin brushing skin.

“You were dying, Cas.”

Pause.

A moment to think.

“Usually, it starts like that. You’re dying, and… and it’s hell. In the first one, your eyes were gorged out, chained up and naked, crying out like a wounded animal, and my brother was there, and he told me I had a choice. Except it wasn’t Sam, it was more like a devil dressed like Sam. He was the one torturing you, cutting you. I had a gun. I had a choice to make. I could shoot you, and then that would’ve been that I might’ve woken up and forgotten all about it. Justify that I killed you because you were in pain. Or I could’ve shot Sam. Possibly save you instead. It was like he was possessed, and he wasn’t really my brother. And… and I couldn’t make that choice. So I pulled the trigger on myself.”

Dean glanced at Castiel, searching for a reaction, but Cas was quiet through this confession, thinking over about what Dean was saying. He took that as a sign to proceed.

“I didn’t have a dream the first night we spent together, remembered no nightmares when I woke up beside you, and it was like you had become my dreamcatcher, for a little while. But they just came back, and they got worse. There was one where I was standing at the edge of a cliff, and both you and Sam were going to fall and I only had time to save one. I jumped too, in the end. Another where I was standing outside my burning house, and Sam was trapped inside and I was going to run in after him to drag him out, but you held me back, told me that I’d get myself killed. So I pulled you into the flames, because that’s the only way I’d be able to get to my brother.

“Then… Jesus, I hate this one…” Dean said, shaking ever so slightly. Cas moved closer to him, holding his hand tighter, “It was Sam’s wedding, a few years down the road. In the church was everyone I’d ever cared about, except then I’d glance around and couldn’t find you sitting anywhere. It’d throw me off every single time, but sooner or later you’d show up, running in late.” Dean chuckled sadly, “And every time I’d get excited and run to you… But then the church would get dark, and Sam would turn into… _Not Sam,_ the demon again, and tell me again and again that it was between you and him. I had to choose who makes it out alive. You’d scream that you’d save me, that in the end everyone lives, and he didn’t believe you. He told me that you’d be the reason I’d get killed. Because I care about you more than I do about escaping, more than I care about Sam.

“Every time this dream played, Sam would throw a knife at me, and before I’d have time to react, you’d protect me. Cas, every damn dream, every fucking nightmare you have wings, and that terrifies me to death. Like why? Why are you this angel who has to protect me and put yourself in a position to get killed because of me?!”

The last few words were spouted out with almost a sob like manner, eyes squeezed shut, and Dean started to shake so bad Cas was afraid his heart might give out from all the stress, a grenade that could only explode from the inside. He clasped Dean’s hand with both of his now, holding it close to his chest.

_(death death why is there always so much death cas i love you dont die on me now)_

And it felt like Dean was having a heart attack, too.

Shot up with too much adrenaline, too afraid, and he had done such a good job of bottling it all up, of concealing it, of not making Cas worry, that bad blood was rising, everything was out of control, shutting down. It felt like he couldn’t breathe, and he was screaming for air in a place where no one could hear him.

_Snap out of it, Winchester! C’mon! Stop this, you’re being ridiculous, stop being such a baby, they’re just dreams, they can’t hurt you! Stop this, stop it!_

“Dean,” Cas whispered, “Dean, look at me.” Dean pried his eyes open again, meeting Cas’ steady expression, the strength of an ocean embracing him, waves carrying him to shore. Calm, without hurry under the sheets. He focussed on trying to match Cas’ breathing, in through the nose and out through the mouth.

_Don’t rush. Don’t rush._

“It’s okay,” Cas hushed kindly, a lingering compassion, “It’s alright. You don’t have to be scared. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“That’s not good enough,” Dean sputtered, “Cas, I’m petrified that I’m going to lose you to the Games! You’re beautiful and gentle and you give me so much hope, and all these dreams interrupt you as an angel who dies for me. Always for me. I don’t want that. I need us to make it because I can’t make that choice. I won’t make that choice if it comes down to just the two of us.”

“We’re going to make it out, Dean,” Cas sighed, his fingers drifting up to stroke Dean’s jawline, tucking hair behind his ear, “You have to trust me. You’re going to make it out of that arena alive, and you’re going to see Sam again. I’ll be right there with you.”

Dean bit his lower lip, before propping himself up on his elbow, leaning in to kiss Cas, pressing their foreheads together. “You swear you won’t leave me.” It was more of a demand than a question, but Cas agreed anyway.

“I swear.”

Dean kissed Cas’ neck, pleased at the small gasp he got. “And you swear,” he remembered, shooting back up, locking their eyes, “That if for whatever reason, there’s no way out, that you save yourself. I don’t care if it looks like they’re going to slit my throat, if I’m in the direct line of fire, you run.”

Cas swallowed, reluctant, hesitant.

“I’m not sure I can say yes to that.”

“Cas, please, you have to do that for me. We both say that dreams can’t hurt us after we wake up, but if I watch that in real time—”

“You don’t understand,” the younger said abruptly, “Dean, I’m not just going to abandon you like that. We’re in this together, we are going to fight it out. Together, or not at all.”

Of course Cas would be stubborn over the subject. Just Dean’s luck that he was in love with the most pigheaded dork in the entire world who would never turn his back on him, that he would refuse to take shelter if it meant Dean would be cornered and held at gunpoint. Too damn loyal for his own good.

Isn’t that what lovers are supposed to do, after all?

Fight for one another until the very end?

“I’m not watching you die for me,” Dean stated flat out, “That’s final.”

“Well I’m not watching you die at all!” Cas huffed back.

Dean gritted his teeth together, hovering over Cas’ body, his small panic attack forgotten and thrown in the wind.

The nightmares were enough. Watching Cas be killed over and over again relentless times and then to be startled awake was enough.

Dean was frustrated, yet couldn’t find the words to express it. Couldn’t find the energy to yell at Cas to just listen instead or being so determined to save him?

Didn’t they want this night to be grand?

Dean practically slammed their mouths together, without warning, slinging his legs on either side of Cas’ hips, lips parted.

“Shut up,” Dean mumbled, “Just shut up, you idiot, and let me love you…”

With a good amount of fumbling and clashing and teeth scraping together, neither of them too desperate to try and make it perfect, Cas’ clothes were on the floor next to Dean’s sweats, panting, sloppy kisses landing everywhere.

Dean placed one on Castiel’s collarbone. “Promise me I won’t loose you, then. Promise me I won’t watch you go like I watched my mom go, or like I watched Benny or like how I almost watched Sam.” He kissed the other collar. “You promise me that…”

“Never,” Cas gasped out, “I’m never going to leave you, Dean. I love you. We’re getting out.”

Dean smirked. “Good,” he whispered, trailing up to bit gently at Cas’ earlobe, “I love you, too.”

They made love, as passionately and as best they could with the entire weight of the world on their shoulders. Cas’ fingernails etching in long red marks around Dean’s scars, awkward noises and tidbits of laughter breaking through. At one point they had rolled off the bed together, tumbling into a heap on the floor, Cas on top of Dean, both of them snickering.

_(oh they wanted desperately to love desperate for hope and redemption and an escape)_

Dean grinned up at the body splayed on him, reaching up to pull him closer, sitting up just a bit to kiss him again.

“I love being naked on the floor with you,” he muttered, the odd comment causing Cas to chuckle. “I mean, there’s rug burn and shit like that, but a little rash is worth it. You’re more than worth it, more than I deserve. And damn, I wish I was good at poetry. Poetry to do you good.”

Dean was smiling in a dizzy haze during all this, grasping at Cas’ hands, needing to hold onto something before he floated away, Cas grinning down at him.

“However,” Dean carried on, “There’s no poem I could write that could outdo that of your name. And I’ll never get sick of saying it. Never get bored of screaming it into the sky until my lungs can’t take it, until my voice fades away.”

“You don’t have to do that for me,” Cas said quietly, then gave a short burst of laughter. “And I’m pretty sure you just made up poetry, Dean.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, cockiness beginning to seep through. The same cockiness that made the colony of butterflies in Cas’ stomach all fly up at once, just like when they first met.

The butterflies simply wouldn’t die away because Dean Winchester refused to stop being a wonder of the world.

“Really?” he clicked his tongue, “Well, what a nice accident. And Cas, you can’t stop me from telling every damn soul about how much I’m in love with you. I know I don’t have to do it. But I want to. I want to stand out on the rooftops every morning, take you with me, feel the sunrise on our skin. Then I’d dance with you to every love song I know… If you’d let me…”

“Only if you sing them all,” Cas retorted, “I only want to hear the lyrics from your mouth. I’d like to get drunk off the sound of your voice. Intoxicated forever. I’d like that a lot.”

They stayed there, just curled up on the floor together. A simple thing, a small little thing like that shouldn’t have been a big deal, but of course it was. Here they were, head over heels for each other, making the most of whatever time they had left, because when the morning light hit, they had no idea when they would get the chance again.

Cas nuzzled himself into Dean’s side, a blanket folded loosely over them on the floor, Dean’s face turned to the window where the moon hung in the darkened sky.

“I can’t believe it’s tomorrow,” he lightly exhaled, feeling Cas shift underneath his chin.

“I know.”

“I didn’t think it would come this fast.”

Cas kissed Dean’s chest, rubbing tiny circles around the chosen spot, thinking about what he should say.

“Bad things always come faster than anticipated,” was what he finally settled on. A cushion of silence came between them for a minute, a steady rhythm of breaths exchanged into the atmosphere the only source of sound.

“Dean?” 

“Yeah?”

  “Are we crazy?”

Dean thought about this for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“For falling in love like this,” said Cas, with a slight hesitation to his words. “I mean, other people wouldn’t dare allow emotion to get to them like it got to us. We went and tossed logic in the wind. Most people wouldn’t do that. So are we crazy?”

 _Of course we are,_ Dean thought.

“We’re fucking insane.”

And it was the truth. They were crazy. A Bonnie & Clyde sort of pair. And that’s okay because all of this was crazy in a terrible way. They were both placing a high bet beyond their control, trapped within the eye of the hurricane. At any point, they could get killed, slaughtered in the Games, because that was the nature of it. Even more likely would one watch as the other bled out, crying, screaming, in a boxing ring with Death and doomed to be down for the count.

_(not with a bang but with silence)_

They might never make it out. Their bodies could easily be blown up and shipped back to their districts to be buried by noon tomorrow.

But then again, they might live another day. Then another. And then another, because there was definitely a chance.

It was like a bank robbery. They could enter with guns ablaze and discover that the vaults had been emptied, and come to realize that the odds were never in their favour at all as the cops dragged them down the steps and shoot them on the street.

However, they could also find more money than they ever had imagined in that bank. Strike the mother load. Become rich.

Two burglars might actually get lucky.

“I guess the universe wanted us to be together,” Dean sighed, “and this was the only way it could pull it off.”

Cas nodded. “Yes. I suppose that is a good explanation.”

“Hey, Cas?” Dean lifted up Cas’ chin with one hand gently, so that they met eye to eye. Dean smiled softly when he saw the incredible blues Cas possessed, full of life.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Will you marry me?”

Cas felt a breath hitch in his throat.

It was sudden. It was unexpected, and all he could do was stare at Dean with a dumbfounded look, watch Dean wait with wide eyes as if he himself was surprised by the question, despite it coming from his own mouth.

“I-I mean,” Dean blushed, flustered. His body became like the sea, smashing heavily against the rocks on a windy night and the ocean spray hit him in the face as he walks on top of water. Exhilarated. Scared. A million other words and a billion phrases flooded his mind, yet he had trouble spitting out what he wanted to say. “Only if you want to. I was just thinking, once we’re out… we might as well, right? Life is so short, damn it…”

His voice faded into a bare vibration in the back of his gullet, glance averted from Cas, searching for anything to search for, anything to look at, except the boy in his lap.

But while Dean was busy on the water, Cas was in a rocket. All his systems and cells shooting and functioning at at light speed pace, adrenaline surging through him,

_(my god its full of stars)_

and there was a need to cry and laugh and shout all at the same time, without restriction. Because now, there were no bars.

Because for once, he didn’t feel like a broken bird.

For the first time in a little while, Cas felt as though he could fly away from all of this. Dean had come along with a crowbar and torn down his cage, smashed it to pieces, and for tonight, every sting and every slash of pain Cas felt stabbing into him was erased.

He had kissed Dean scars, healed them, and now Dean was only repaying the favour.

In that moment, the cage didn’t exist. There were no bars to trap him inside, nothing in the corner threatening to strip him of his humanity. There were no people, no hopeless rats and birds, no governments or gods or life or death. In this one moment, there was only a very bright sun, and the earth, forever in their perfect dance as the universe collapsed around them.

There only was the poet, who wrote for a greater purpose. And an escape artist, who ran for extraordinary reasons.

And they were in love.

“Yes,” Cas gasped, heat rising in his chest, “Yes.”

His hands grasped for Dean’s face, tugging him in in an attempt to kiss the smug smile that had split open on his fiancés face.

Oh, yes.

They were in love.

“Thank God,” Dean muttered, laughing quietly between the force created from them, “Thank God…”

And they held each other, holding on for dear life. Dean buried his face in the crest of Cas’ neck, a low rumbling passed from small ramblings of his words. Little things. _I love you Castiel, I love you I love you, you’re so beautiful, don’t you ever leave me, please…_

It’s strange to remember an old lullaby. You forget them, after all that’s happened to you, when the world is no longer kind to you.

“Dean,” Cas mumbled, hands running up and down mindlessly over Dean’s skin, “Dean, I remember the words. I remember the song now. Do you remember? I hum it, every so often. I hummed it in the shower during our first night together. Do you remember?”

Dean nodded, still beaming. “How could I forget? I remember pretty much every detail from that night. I asked you to sing it for me, and you wouldn’t.”

“Because I’m not confident in my singing,” Cas scoffed, and Dean just smiled.

“I think you should try it,” he whispered, “Just for me. I won’t laugh, I promise.”

It’s incredibly remarkable when you look at someone, and they bring back every happy memory you had as a child, when they’ve been gone for so long. When they talk to you and their words remind you of your mother’s and the way she spoke and the way she sang and all of the sudden, you’re a kid again, and the world has never hurt you.

_“I believe in nothing…”_

You’re six, and playing with your little sister, who’s eyes seem too big and bug like for her face. You’re six and wandering in and out of Daddy’s old study, pulling books from the shelves, tearing them down and flipping them open on the floor. You’re six and you’re not really sure what all the words mean yet, but sometimes there’s pictures of far off lands and you’re so in awe and you’re sister is bouncing with excitement, flailing her tiny hands around.

_I wanna go there one day._

_“Not the end and not the start._

_I believe in nothing, not the earth and not the stars.”_

You’re six years old with dark hair and blue eyes and you’re sister is three and she’s so in awe about those pictures in the books and bless her small soul, she wants to go to that place so bad, for the pink trees, for the cherry blossoms.

 _Castle_ , she used to call you, because Gabriel had convinced her that it was your real name and snickers every time she says it, but you don’t mind too much. She’s trying hard after all. _Castle, it’s so beautiful, Castle…_

_“I believe in nothing,_

_not the day and not the dark.”_

Now you’re twelve, and it’s not long until her ninth birthday, and she’s sick and coughing and there’s blood on her bedspread, and she can’t even call you out by your name anymore.

_“I believe in nothing,_

_but the beating of our hearts.”_

There’d be times in the night where you can hear her crying because the disease taking over her system is so painful, and you’d sneak down to her room, feet silent on the stairs. But when you look through the door, open only a crack, you find that Gabriel has beaten you there at her side, holding tight to her hand, singing softly that old lullaby.

_“I believe in nothing,_

_one hundred suns until we part._

_I believe in nothing, not in sin and not in God.”_

And finally, when Hael finally passes after what seemed to be like years of being sick, you’re sobbing in your room, and Gabriel comes and holds you through the night like all big brothers should, and sings that same song until you can sleep again.

_“I believe in nothing,_

_not in peace and not in war.”_

It’s strange to remember lullabies. Stranger to sing them to lovers, the last time you heard it when your sister and best friend died, yet you feel happy even with the weight of the song on your lungs. Because now, they’re bringing some light. Just like they always have.

_“I believe in nothing…”_

Cas paused for a moment. Listening.

“Dean?” he whispered, “Dean, are you still awake?”

As it turns out, Dean had fallen asleep, breathing with a steady rhythm against Cas’ chest. Cas chuckled to himself.

“Goodnight, my sunshine.” And Cas closed his eyes.

Everything would be alright. Everything would be okay. 

And he firmly believed that.

_...but the truth in who we are._

They did not dream that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The sun will come out tomorrow." I believe that's a quote from Annie.
> 
> Officially, this is now the beginning of the end. The Games will greet them when they wake up, still wrapped in an abundance of sheets, tangled in them, and the reality of it will hit them. Because this is it.
> 
> Welcome to the 25th Annual Hunger Games. The 1st Quarter Quell out of many to come.
> 
> ***
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little chapter. I certainly did. Yes, the long anticipated moment has finally come to meet us, after eighteen chapters of anxiously waiting (sorry about that...*nervous laughing*). I am also sorry to say that the next chapter will most likely come with a long delay, longer than usual. I'm going on a trip to East Europe on Friday, and won't be coming back until April 12th. I probably won't write anything of Safe & Sound while I'm there, won't have enough time. However, I'll start writing as soon as I can! 
> 
> See you all on the other side,  
> -Marina


	19. Chapter 19

**Welcome to Our Execution**

The air carrier’s thunderous drone rang through Dean’s bones. It was like being stuck on a broken roller coaster, with its sudden shakes, turns and blackout sensations. Occasionally, the craft would lurch foreword, causing the shoulder harness to dig deep into his skin, and every time it jolted unexpectedly, Dean would flinch, his knuckles white on the armrest. He felt sick. Stomach constantly churning, lightheaded. The feeling that he could pass out at any moment.

It was like a bad hangover. A terribly bad hangover.

He tired to get his mind off of it, he really did. Focussed on strictly his breathing for a minute or so, but the noise lured him right out of it several times. Dean tired humming a few songs to himself to help calm down, imagining the lyrics and the guitar line blaring in his head, the best that he could in attempt to block it all out.

_Listen, baby,_

_Ain’t no mountain high, Ain’t no valley low,_

_and no river wide enough, baby._

The craft did its classic jerk again, and Dean bit on his lip to keep himself from whimpering out loud. _Stay focussed,_ he thought, _stay focussed, stay on target, stay on target—_

He waited for the turbulence to settle down before his silent song resumed playing. A non-existent turntable laying down a black record, lips forming the words softly.

_If you need me, call me,_

_No matter where you are,_

_No matter how far; don’t worry baby._

_Just call my name; I’ll be there in a hurry_

_You don’t have to worry,_

God, Dean wished he had his guitar. Something physical, wooden, closer to come and with the sharp metallic strings underneath his fingers. Not this paralyzing flight into whatever darkness was to come. He wanted to sing his nerves and fears away, just like he always had. Loud. Loud, with no unease, no dismay, an instrument that would drown out his father’s drunken screams and children’s broken cries. Pure music.

He took a shaky breath, and moved his head slightly sideways to see Becky seated next to him. In a way, she looked the way he felt. Eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. Her face was so pale you might have wondered if she had been drained, and her breathing was short, panicked behind pursed lips.

Dean prayed she wasn’t trying to bite her own tongue off.

_Oh baby, there ain’t no mountain high enough,_

_Ain’t no valley low enough,_

Dean gave the rest of the cabin a glance. There were two rows of seats, facing each other, the people positioned by District number. A few more anxiety filled faces came to his view, but otherwise, just a dead air, dead mugs. Twenty-two teenagers and most of them looked like they’d already seen perdition. All waiting in a stone cold quiet that shook them through.

_Remember the day I set you free,_

_I told you you could always count on me, darling._

_From that day on, I made a vow,_

_Execution_.

Dean swallowed, a hard lump forming in his throat. It was nothing more than a merciless execution. For crimes they didn’t commit, of course. Criminals for just being born too late or too soon. Some convicts will sit here and they’ll be proud of their arrest. Others like him, they’ll just be scared to death, because the electric chair is no honourable way to go.

But even those like Dean would have gladly taken the chair over this.

No. No, even worse than the chair. You could’ve very well sent him back to 12. Force him to live there, die there, when the coal dust fills his lungs and cancer derails him from the tracks. You could put him back, trap him in, take a crowbar and destroy the car, rip away his chance of freedom. Tear away his _one chance_ to bury that damn place. That would be a better way to eliminate Dean Winchester than the Games, than throwing him in with the lions and watch him kill or be killed.

_I’ll be there when you want me to,_

_Someway, somehow_

Hand him a meaningless life, and he’d accept it without a fight, because that sentence wasn’t so bad in comparison. At least then you could dump his headstone next to his brother’s.

The only thing you absolutely couldn’t tear away from Dean was the feeling he had when he woke up that morning.

Perfection was the only word he could think to describe it.

The clouds had been strange. There were rows of them, parallel, all across the sky for miles. As if they wanted to be harvested, as though the sky were a field, growing them from seeds. Their empty spaces showed blue, and just coming over the horizon the sun made its way.

Sunshine crept in, spilling across the carpet and their bedsheets, glinting through Cas’ dark hair. Blinding Dean, a curse word falling lazily from his lips. But he soon smiled, despite the bastard sun.

The covers were bundled by the foot of the bed, but with Cas pressed into him and his arms hugging him close, he didn’t feel cold. Cas had taken his hand and intwined their fingers loosely at some point in the night, after they had made the decision to leave the floor, retreat into softer blankets.

Cas was still sound asleep, chest slowly rising and falling, and Dean kissed the back of his neck, gently. Cas shifted under him, and Dean’s hand moved itself away from the other boy’s and up to brush the longer strands of hair out of his face instead.

It was such a wonderful, beautiful sight, and Dean wanted to hold onto it forever. The image of Castiel lost in some dream, with no worry or care in the world.

What Dean would give to see that again. Waking up again and again just to see his face.

You couldn’t rip that from his cold dead hands, even if you tried.

_Oh baby there ain’t no mountain high enough,_

_Ain’t no valley low enough,_

_Ain’t no river wide enough,_

Dean’s right hand managed to pry itself away from the armrest, his fingers sore from clinging on so tight, and made its way to the base of his throat. It found the amulet swinging there, and he allowed his palm to encircle it. The cold piece of jewellery burned against his hot skin, offering a thin barrier between metal and boiling blood. A small reminder on why he was here at all.

_To keep me from getting to you, babe._

Because you could give Dean Winchester the electric chair, the noose, an overdose, and a grave in the cemetery in District 12, their backyard next to his mother or even in the goddamn Games for all he cared, and you could sure as hell try to take away Castiel. But if someone even laid a single hand against Sammy… tried to hurt him, tried to take his soul—

 _—Because there is a fire, and Dean watches as the flames eat at the walls, and he can’t find Mommy or Daddy but starts running to Sam’s room anyways, and his father bursts out with sweat on his forehead and coughing out smoke. Take your brother outside, he says, handing Dean a bundle of blankets, the weight like the world in Dean’s arms, and Dean wants to ask where Mom is, but the cackling of the fire is too loud, and all he can hear is Daddy’s voice, screaming,_ Now, Dean! Go! _so he turns and takes off, Sammy squirming uncomfortably in his hold, coughing. Because there is a fire, and Dean needs to save Sam—_

—well, you’d have to break Dean first before you even got close.

Dean opened his eyes, his vision blurred for a brief second before the sight of Cas came clear in front of him, who looked the opposite of what Dean felt. What was flailing inside Dean was a scared bird trapped inside his ribcage, suffocating, trying to fly out of the dark but got it’s wings stuck between veins. Cas held the demeanour of a large cat— _a lion,_ Dean noted—striding across a desert landscape. No hurry, no rush, no hunger to strike up the beast. Just a cat wondering when the sun would set.

Cas’ hands were folded in his lap, back slightly slouched, and feet apart. His chin was tilted towards the ceiling, eyes only half closed, and his lips were slowly forming well thought out words, and then it registered with Dean that Cas was in the middle of praying.

And usually it’s a rude gesture to stare at someone who is praying, but Dean just couldn’t look away. The sight left him somewhat breathless, and the thundering of the aircraft seemed became distant. Maybe it was because he was staring at something quite dignified. Maybe it was because this _something_ was actually a _someone_ , and that _someone_ was a boy he was very much in love with. A boy who believed in God when God seemed to have vanished from the face of the Earth. A boy who cried his name during long nights. A boy, Castiel Novak, who wrote poetry in the most subtle ways, a flick of his tongue and there was art. A boy who Dean loved so much, who wasn’t scared of what was happening.

Dean couldn’t look away.

And, in the mist of all his thinking, he didn’t notice that the prayer had come to its end, and Cas’ eyes had now landed on him. Dean’s mouth gaped open a bit, mind rushing to sputter out a word, but Cas just smiled.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, calmly. He leaned foreword and balanced his elbows on his knees, chin resting on the combined fist of his hands. Dean swallowed the dryness down his throat, a tired grin forming at his mouth.

“Hey,” he said back, “How’s it going?”

Cas shrugged his shoulders, faking a sigh. “Oh, I don’t know. Impending death is coming my way. It’s okay, I guess.” Dean bit his lower lip to keep himself from laughing.

“Yeah, same here,” Dean mumbled. Cas’ eyes were almost glowing, their blue radiant and lovely and warm, full of life and love. Dean wanted to reach over and pull his stupid face in and smear kisses on that boy’s face and to lay a hand on his chest to feel his heart beat. To pull him close, to bury his face in Castiel’s black hair, listen to Cas chuckle against his skin, and to whisper _I love you_ into his ear until darkness encased the Earth, and even after that.

The aircraft gave another jolt, and Dean felt his stomach lurch into his throat. He tossed his head into the headrest and closed his eyes again, hoping it would soon go away, attempting to force the bad taste forming in his mouth.

Cas watched with pained eyes.

His hands fell back into his lap, but he clenched them into fists to refrain himself from placing one on Dean’s knee. To stop him from showing comfort. Dean had to be paralyzed with fear, from being up in a shaky plane, and that shaky plane delivering him right into the Games, yet he gritted his teeth, refused to cry out. His skin turned white, but he still smiled, still put up a strong front.

 _Dean, you’re the bravest man I know,_ Cas wanted to say. _So very brave._

But his voice caught in his throat, the engines too loud, the violent turbulence silencing them both.

 _You volunteered for your brother,_ Cas would tell him, _you threw yourself into harms way to save him because you love him with all your soul. And that’s a very brave thing to do, Dean Winchester. And look at you,_ he half grinned to himself, _going around and falling in love with other tributes, putting faith in my plan. That’s brave, too_.

Cas watched as Dean drew a trembling breath, shook his head twice and blinked a few times, eyes focusing right on him. Some sweat lined Dean’s brow.

_You refuse to admit you are scared._

Dean cracked a smile, teeth and all, as if to reassure Cas that he was going to be fine and not to worry about him. That cocky grin that made Castiel’s heart flutter like a thousand butterflies.

_You refuse to be anything but brave for those you care about. Refuse to cower. That’s why you are the bravest man I know, Dean._

Dean winked at him, and Cas bowed his head to hide the upturn of his lips.

_God, protect him._

Very suddenly, a woman approached him, a mask over her mouth and dark goggles over her eyes, and before Cas could ask her what she was doing, she had taken Cas’ arm and plunged a needle into his skin, a gasp escaping his mouth. And of course, Dean noticed.

“Hey!”

The woman didn’t turn around at the sound of Dean’s sudden outburst, merely kept on her way, emptying the contents of her syringe in Cas, Cas’ eyes averted to the floor. When the woman finished, she moved on to the next tribute without a single word, pulling another sharpe needle from her belt.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked, and Cas huffed a sigh, rubbing at the small red mark left there, a bead of blood emerging.

“Trackers,” he responded, in a dead tone, “So they can monitor our movements down there. They feel our heart rates, too, and if it gets to be too slow or stops…”

Dean nodded, understanding. He didn’t say anything more on the subject. He did, however, turn and watch the nurse continue on her trek, repeating the same procedure with the Milton girl. Her flaming red hair was tied back, a stray curl hugging her jawline, and her eyes stared straight ahead. She’d been like that for the entire flight.

A memory came back to Dean suggesting that Anna joined their escape team, and remembered Cas shaking his head in a solemnly way. _No_ , he had replied, _She’s too… too much of a soldier… I don’t blame her, with all the brainwashing the’ve put her through… She’s born for this._ Bred _for this._

Dean supposed he couldn’t blame her, either.

Once again the plane moved with sudden intensity, but by this time Dean was getting more and more used to the sensation, the waves having a lesser effect on the shore. Although, he couldn’t help but think that possibly, quite possibly, that the plane might just crash.

Any moment, it could just go down. The weather seemed to support that. Through the small window on Dean’s left he could see the clouds thickening, rain and wind pouring, and the occasional rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. It wouldn’t be surprising if they all died before they even took a single step inside that arena. Sure, the Capitol probably wouldn’t allow that to happen, because for them the show always goes on. Even if that were to happen, they’d restart the entire process again. Do another reaping, another set of kids.

But maybe it was best if they did crash. After all, Castiel’s plan could be easily flawed. The secret trapdoor might not be in an easy place to reach, or it might not even exist at all. It was possible they might all die anyway—

 _Don’t you think like that,_ Dean snapped to himself, _Don’t you even dare to think like that. We’re getting out, the four of us. We’re gonna fight our way out. I’ll see Sam again, I’ll watch the sunrise with Cas again, we’re gonna make it and don’t you fucking dare think otherwise…_

He had to have a little faith.

A hard stone to come across. A grain of sand on a beach, just about impossible to find. But it was still there. Somewhere, but most definitely, faith was there.

Small. But existent.

At this point, Dean realized that he was still holding on to the amulet, in a tighter grasp than he meant, and let it fall back against his shirt.

 _I want you to have it,_ Sam had been saying, with red eyes and a broken voice, _so you remember you have a reason._

 _Reason_ _for what?_ Dean asked his brother, an eyebrow raised.

_To come back._

Dean inhaled a big breath. Then exhaled, his eyes closing. Not squeezing shut, like he did when the aircraft was being moody, but gently. Embracing the comfort of darkness.

_I’ll come back._

_(do not go gentle into that goodnight)_

_I’ll come home._

The nurse made her way up the row, now on to the District 4 kids. Anna kept on with her blank expression, and Cas had faded back into his mumbling prayer. So Dean turned to Becky.

She was sweating, faintly, a thin film of it on her forehead and neck. At every small sound she would jump, face frightened, and she constantly looked as if she were about to burst into tears. Her hands fidgeted restlessly.

Dean reached over and took the one closest to him, ignoring the clamouring and the cold perspiration on her palms. Becky turned to him and he smiled at her wide scared eyes.

“Hey,” he said, just loud enough to hear over the monotone droning, “It’s okay.”

The plane jerked, and Becky made a scared noise from her mouth and squeezed Dean’s hand so hard that he thought she might break his wrist. Despite that, he didn’t pull away.

“I know you’re scared,” he continued softly, when the plane’s movements had subsided, “Trust me, I am too. To hell and back. But it’s gonna be okay, kiddo. It’ll be okay.”

Becky shook her head wildly, strands of her blonde hair collapsing from her ponytail and falling into her face. Words tried to make their exit, but some invisible force had cut her vocal chords, and she was quiet.

“You’re not going to die in there, Becks,” Dean said, attempting to reassure her, “I told you, I’m not going to let them hurt you, I’m not going to let them get you. Remember what I told you before, we’re getting you out of there.”

But it was almost as though Becky refused to listen. Her head went on rocking back and forth, her small body trembling with a winter that had settled in her bones. Words wouldn’t leave her, but a single, very human cry found it’s way through her throat, and she choked it out. A terrified sob.

A deer, lost and wounded in the forest.

Dean brought her closer to him, her head resting on his chest as she cried, each weep a round of thunder, every tear like lightning.

And Dean couldn’t blame her.

She was so tiny in a big, big world that was doing everything in its power to destroy her, and Dean couldn’t—wouldn’t—blame her for crying.

There is no shame in that.

“We’ll get out,” he whispered, “We’ll make it…”

He started to believe it, too.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, Becky beginning to calm down, her breathing slower and steadier. Her cries dwindled until they became nothing more than glazed and watery eyes and the hiccup every while or so. She was sitting up, hands hastily wiping at her face to remove any remaining tears that stained her cheeks, when Dean saw something clinging to Becky’s wrist.

“Nice bracelet,” he commented, pointing to it. “That your token?”

A hand flew to the bracelet, as though trying to cover it from view, and failing. It wasn’t anything special, really, upon first glance. Only a brown piece of string tied by a frayed knot, hosting ten or twelve plastic beads of all sorts of colours, most abundant in mint green. She nodded, cautiously.

“My sister made it for me,” she muttered, rubbing at the beads, “She’s three. Gave it to me a few months ago, called it our friendship bracelet… She calls me her best friend.”

Dean smiled. “I’ll bet,” he said. “My baby brother gave me something, too.”

He held up the amulet, its false gold glinting against whatever light the cabin presented, and it caught Becky’s attention whole heartedly. “Sammy got it for me as a reaping gift. Reminds me of him everyday.” He paused, thinking of what to say next, his mind drawing blanks.

“You’re sister probably misses you a ton,” he finally settled on, and Becky gave a tiny smile. “I think you’d be an amazing sister.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I hope so. I don’t think I’m as good as you, though. You volunteered for Sam,” she looked to the floor, “I’m not sure if I could ever do that…”

There was a tint of guilt in her words as she said that. Dean swallowed that weird taste rising in his mouth.

“Well, it didn’t have to come down to that for you,” he replied, “Most people wouldn’t have volunteered, and I get that. No one wants to be in the Games, and as much as we hate to admit it, our own survival is usually our top priority. We just want to stay alive.”

Becky thought about this for a moment.

“Then you are much braver than most people, Dean.”

_Dean Winchester didn’t like to clump himself in the term “everyone.”_

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I suppose so.”

_I volunteer as tribute._

_You take that back. You take that back Dean, or I swear…_

_Sammy, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s gonna be fine, it’s gonna be—_

“I can’t wait to see him again.”

_(my orders are my duty which i gladly hand over my life)_

Dean looked back to Cas again, just enough for a brief second, to see that his lips had paused and his eyes were scrunched. Listening on something, and Dean wondered what was on his mind. Wanted to ask him. Reach out and touch him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Becky reclaimed his hand again, and his heart steadied.

He left 12 in order to protect Sam, yet that urge to save people was still aflame. There was a boy with a genius mind. A young girl with her innocence still intact, a little sister waiting for her return. And an angel. His angel.

Castiel, who had never-ending grace that pulled Dean from the firing pan, and although they were both toppling towards the fire, there was still hope. There was hope sparked by those blue eyes that reminded Dean so much of the sky.

It was now that Dean realized that his biggest fear wasn’t really the Hunger Games.

The Games were definitely a part of it, however. They tortured him in a way that was indescribable and painful, that made Dean want to storm into the Capitol and burn it to the ground, but they were not what he was truly afraid of. It wasn’t even that if he chose to scream, scream from all the pain, the sorrow, that no one would hear him. And, if they did, they wouldn’t give a damn.

No.

Dean’s biggest fear was losing everyone he wanted so desperately to save.

And Dean wondered how Cas was calm enough to pray. To fold his hands, bow his head, and pray. They had four warm bodies to get home, four people to deliver out of here.

There is that chance that Dean might just fail all of them.

A fear that was like a wild animal, tearing at him from the inside.

Perhaps Cas had the right idea, then.

 _Are you there, God?_ Dean started, just as the woman with the goggles and mask came to him next, her syringe in hand with the tip of the needle spilling clear liquid, _It’s that bastard Dean Winchester again…_

***

It’s technical name was the Launch Room. A very plain, very vague name that gave you the general idea of what it was used for. Dean laughed at it.

He sat on an elevated bench, high enough that his feet were dangling above the floor, hands planted on either side of his thighs on the freezing metal. He was given a black t-shirt and a thick set of cargo pants, layered with an assortment of different pockets.

Occasionally, his eyes would wonder to the clear, cylinder elevator that was placed near the wall to his right, and his heart would stutter. It was wide enough to only fit one person, and he knew exactly where it would take him once he was inside. Dean tried not to look at it.

Ellen walked over to him, placing a jacket by his side. “What’s your sorry ass chuckling at?” she questioned, but with some lightheartedness to her tone. Dean watched as she raised an eyebrow, the smoky eyeshadow going up with it, like a thunderstorm rising. Ellen was dress in her usual decor today: black turtleneck, black leggings, dark makeup. Her hair was tied back, and Dean could see the fine grey roots that were beginning to show at her temples. Maybe they were from aging. Most likely from the stress, at least partially. He made no comment of them.

Dean rolled his shoulders. “I’ve heard stories of tributes referring to it as ‘the stockyard.’ To be honest, I like it a lot more. Seems like the better fitting name.”

Ellen didn’t respond vocally to it, but Dean could tell by the smug grin on her face that he was right. All those kids were to the Capitol were pit bulls in a dog fighting ring, and they cheered and placed their bets on the sidelines while the poor mutts were forced into hacking one another apart.

Dogs with no other choice, really. No hope of a trapdoor.

Dean’s hand was on the amulet again, thumb and forefinger rubbing at it in calming movements. Two names were flooding his head, two faces, two different smiles that shone light into Dean’s dark world: _Sam. Cas. Cas. Sam. Sammy, Castiel, Sam, Cas, Sam, Cas, baby brother, lover, Sam, Cas—_

There was a scene that was playing out in Dean’s head, while the room was quiet. It showed him at the wheel of Freedom, driving with the window down and his elbow out, Castiel sitting shotgun, and their hands intertwined. Wind was blowing in, tousling Cas’ hair, a great big smile on his face. Maybe the radio would be working, or they would have a tape in, and a song would be lightly playing in the background. Every now and then Dean would look into the rearview mirror, nothing but Sam fast asleep in the backseat and an empty dirt road behind them.

Driving to who the hell knows where.

_(do not go gentle into that goodnight)_

Dean and Ellen didn’t talk much, barely speaking a word since upon entering. Ellen busied herself, however. Fussing over straightening his shirt, folding his jacket, once, twice. Wasting time.

Yet it remained that only children could play pretend for so long.

“Well, Winchester,” Ellen finally mumbled, a hand resting on her hip. “I think you’re all set to go. Got your token?”

Dean showed it to her, holding it up to the faint light. Ellen nodded. “I had to practically fight the Gamemakers to convince them it wasn’t dangerous,” she laughed, “They kept saying that you could potentially stab someone with it. Bunch of morons with their heads so far up their asses they can see light.”

“Thanks for that, Ellen,” Dean cracked a cocky smile. The one that always got Cas flustered. “I appreciate it.”

“And you better, kid.”

Dean pushed himself from the bench, the thud of his boots echoing off the steel walls, making the room seem much bigger than it actually was.

Suddenly, Dean felt very alone.

“Now, remember: when you go up the chute, you’re gonna be standing on a circular plate. There’ll be a sixty second countdown. Whatever you do, you _do not_ leave the plate, no matter what happens, not even a single step. You’ll have armed land mines all around you, and just like that—” Ellen snapped her fingers, “—You’ll be blown out of the water. Wait for the counter. When it hits zero, a gong will sound. _That’s_ when you run. The Cornucopia will be in the centre, really hard to miss. Use those bowlegs of yours and try to get there first. Don’t fight another tribute for an item. Just grab something and get going.”

_(or get busy dying)_

Dean wrestled on the jacket, listening attentively to everything Ellen was saying, yet couldn’t help but notice the masked fatigue behind her instructions. Muffled, of course, but Dean had a knack for picking up muffled cries. Always have.

Back in 12, when they were much younger, he’d wake up to a sniffling Sam, tears draining into his sheets, trying to mute the whimpers with his pillow. There’d be nights where it was a bad dream. Sometimes, it was the nights John had come home drunk and Sam had watched him and Dean fight it out, not unlike the night before Voting Day. But sometimes Dean would wake up and hear Sam crying, and it’s very difficult to hide pain from Dean Winchester.

Cas was a bit harder to read, but Dean could always tell by the way his eyes darkened at the mention of his family. Hael. Gabriel. Lucifer. Even his vanished parents, where explanation for their disappearance was dead and couldn’t be sought. It’d be there in the slight waver of his words, the way he’d glance towards the sky. Searching for some kind of higher power to give him comfort.

Dean learned how to detect sorrow. After years of practice, he became good at it.

A monotone voice sounded over an intercom, a voice that seemed incredibly distant and far away, mostly because Dean felt incredibly alone, even with Ellen just in arms reach. And it was because he was a lone soldier, and the trenches were waterborne and he was going out to drown.

_“Launch will commence in T-minus two minutes.”_

Dean heaved out a sigh. “Well,” he said opening his arms, “I guess this is the end of the road.”

“It better not be, you arrogant son of a bitch,” Ellen grumbled as she walked into his hug, “You better claw your way out of there, or I’ll come in there and kill you myself. Ya got it?”

“Yeah, yeah I got it,” Dean chuckled softly, “I got it.”

“I’m serious,” she said, letting go, “I want you to win. In fact, I know you can, and if I saw you as anything less than a person I’d have bets placed on you already. Out of all the boys I made pretty in the past five years, you have the best fighting chance… You can do it.”

And that’s when Dean saw the tears welling up from behind her eyes, but they did not spill.

_(the world doesn’t have sympathy for those who cry)_

“I hate this job,” she muttered. Her hands went to rub at her temples, “God, I hate this job, tiger. I’ve been in the stylist industry for five years and that’s five years too many. And watching five other boys go in and get massacred was hard enough, and then you stumbled in here, and now… Now it’s like watching Jo go all over again…”

Dean felt a lump form in his throat.

“I’m so sick and tired of watching my boys get picked off every year, and I’m over here and I can’t do anything about it. But you better live, Winchester. I better see your damn face again. Not on a screen. In the flesh.”

Dean held her again, a little tighter this time.

_“Launch will commence in T-minus one minute.”_

“You better come back.” The words came out as a short, sharp sob that made Dean want to cry, too. Because even though the world has no time for people who weep, who cry, he could take a few seconds to break down. Because a woman was holding him, because it was like having her daughter back, and he was holding her because she reminded him of his mother.

An odd, yet perfect pair of people.

But Dean didn’t cry.

_“Launch will commence in T-minus thirty seconds.”_

“I’ll come back,” Dean whispered to her, “I’ll come back, I promise.”

_“—T-minus twenty seconds—”_

“You know, Winchester,” Ellen said, a small smile emerging from behind her tears, “I think Jo would’ve really liked you. You’re both too confident for your own good. I wish you got to meet her.”

Dean just grinned, the best he could manage. “I’m sure one day I will. Thanks for everything, Mom.”

_“—ten seconds—”_

“May the odds be ever in your favour, Dean.”

Their embrace fell, for the last time, and Dean made his way to the elevator, looking at it hesitantly before stepping in. His heart was flying at a thousand miles per hour, and his chest was tight, because this was it.

 _You think you can wait a while?_ he had told Sam, in the midst of their goodbye.

_I’ll wait forever, as long as it means that you’re coming home._

Dean had smiled. _I’m so proud of us._

_(do not go gentle into that goodnight)_

_“—seven, six, five, four—”_

The door closed around him, and he felt the elevator slowly start to ascend. He swallowed.

_(old age should burn and rave at close of day)_

“Hey, Winchester!” Ellen shouted, her voice loud enough for Dean to hear through the glass. He made eye contact with her. Saw the fire that was burning. A determined sort of look.

_“—two, one—”_

_(rage)_

“Don’t let them destroy you.”

_(rage against the dying of the light)_

_“—zero.”_

***

Cas fiddled restlessly with his watch, taking care not to pull at the frays in the leather band. It’s hands ticked away, in a melancholy sense, ticked away the seconds that would lead into minutes that would then lead into hours, all the way until the watch stopped. That was its only purpose. Tick until it died, or until time ceased to exist.

He was nervous, most definitely, but Cas was always good at hiding that part of him from peering eyes. Even Dean’s. Even Lucifer’s, despite him standing within five feet of Cas’ reach, grinning with some sort of sick pride that made Cas’ stomach plummet through the floor.

They haven’t said much of anything to each other. Cas focussed mainly on mental meditation, calming his heart rate, breathing, and simply rehearsing a poem he heard long ago, over and over in his head.

It made him feel braver, this poem. Like many things he discovered as a child in his father’s study, Hael had found it, lying on her tummy, asking for him to read it out loud to her. It’s stuck with him ever since, like Gabriel’s lullaby, and now he wished he could recite it out loud. Feel the words come alive on his tongue, come alive and walk on their own two legs. Maybe then Cas wouldn’t feel so alone in this metal room.

“Well, little brother,” Lucifer said, with a sigh, “How’re you feeling?”

That was a good question. How _was_ Castiel feeling?

He supposed he was scared. Any kid going into the arena must be somewhat scared, at least on a certain level. There was no panic, however. No feeling of desperately needing to escape, no feelings of being a poor bird in a cage. Just scared.

“Fine,” Cas finally mumbled out, after some thought, “Just fine.”

“Ready for this?” Cas nodded twice, hands still unable to stop fidgeting the watch. It was making its way into its second ever Hunger Games, and Cas wondered, if it could, would it be screaming?

_“Launch will commence in T-minus two minutes.”_

Luce smiled again, placing two heavy hands on Cas’ shoulders, and Cas had to force himself not to tense up at the touch.

“I’m so proud of you, kiddo,” Luce started, “Dad would’ve been proud of you. I’d like to think our whole family is.” He paused for a brief moment before continuing. “You’re going to do great in there. Your training has improved at an amazing rate since you arrived here… Second Novak to win the Games. And a Quarter Quell, too.”

 _Oh_.

Cas felt his throat run very dry, all of the sudden.

_Oh, dear brother, I’m afraid this is our last meeting._

Lucifer—and quite frankly, a good number of people—expected Cas to come out as this years victor. Of course they would. He had a legacy to follow up, he was supposed to be great.

But after this, they would never see his face again.

_I’m sorry, Lucy._

But Cas smiled instead of voicing his thoughts. Instead of telling his brother that he was different, that he and Luce were in no way the same, that Luce was a natural born killer, and Castiel was a rebel with too big of a heart for his own damn good.

Cas smiled, and stayed silent.

_“Launch will commence in T-minus one minute.”_

“Well, Castiel,” Lucifer said once more, his hands resting on his hips, “This is it. It’s goodbye, for now.”

“Are you worried about me?” Cas inquired, and Luce just shook his head.

“Of course, but not overly. You’ll do good. I have faith in you. Remember what I taught you about holding your arrows. That’ll come in handy if you can find a bow right away at the Cornucopia. Run fast. Watch out for the mutts.”

He pulled Cas in for a hug, and for the first time in a long time, Cas hugged him back.

“And don’t die, kid.”

“Of course,” Cas muttered, “of course.”

He was still reciting the poem in his head. Because he felt the need to be brave. They haven’t been close, the two brothers, they never were. But they were still family, and now Cas was leaving that all behind. Forever.

_“Launch will commence in T-minus thirty seconds.”_

_Goodbye._

“I know about you and that Winchester boy.”

It came as a whisper. So faint, so distant, that Cas wondered if maybe he had just imagined it over the pounding of blood in his ears. But no, when their embrace broke, he could see the dark look that possessed Lucifer’s eyes.

_“—twenty seconds—“_

He _knew_.

Somehow, Lucifer had it figured out. But that shouldn’t of been possible. Cas had made sure, absolute sure that nobody knew, that him and Dean weren’t obvious around one another, he had been extremely cautious, careful, he had been careful—

_He can’t know._

And as Lucifer leaned in once again, close to his ear, the movement of his lips brought Castiel’s blood to turn to ice, his voice hitched in his throat, desperately begging to crawl its way out, leaving bloody scars and a heavy metallic taste sitting his his mouth. The colour drained from his face, and he was drowning.

The world was drowning him.

_(the devil knows all your secrets)_

“You think a few thin walls would cover you screaming his name?”

_“—ten seconds, nine, eight—“_

_(dean)_

Cas could only shake his head, slowly, the weight of how truly afraid he was rising in his chest, the water suffocating him.

_“—five, four—“_

He could’ve denied it, too.

Cas could have just as easily tried to defend himself, say something as simple as _I don’t know what you’re talking about,_ and left it at that. His body was already in the elevator, glass doors closing.

But he didn’t.

_(peter denied jesus three times)_

He couldn’t. Because he had screamed out Dean Winchester’s name, had kissed that boy’s dirty lips and worshipped him, adored him, and would do it again until the Earth sank to its knees and bowed to the apocalypse.

The poem continued on its song.

_(i love you dean winchester)_

“Goodbye, brother.”

_“—zero.”_

***

_Do not go gentle into that goodnight._

_Old age should burn and rave at the close of day;_

_Rage. Rage against the dying of the light._

 

_Though wise men at their end know dark is right,_

_Because their words had forked no lightning they_

_Do not go gentle into that good night._

 

_Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright_

_Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

 

_Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,_

_And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,_

_Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight_

_Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

_And you, my father, there on that sad height,_

_Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray._

_Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

  ***

_He surfaces, and it’s white._

_Blinding white, and the light burns his eyes, and he hisses, raising a hand to cast a shadow. He can’t see shit, and he wonders if maybe he walked in on a twisted version of Heaven instead. In fact it’s so bright that he doesn’t even pay attention to the heatwave that’s drying out his mouth or irritating his skin, not until his pupils adjust fifteen seconds later._

_“Ah, Jesus,” Dean grunts to himself as he feels any remaining hope flee his system, just for a moment, as he’s faced with a sea of sand._

_He has to admit, this was not the environment he was expecting at all, and the shock hits him rather hard. He’s seen plenty of arenas, plenty of Games, yet this was the first desert setting that he knew of there to be. He supposed that was fitting—Quarter Quell arenas were designed to be somewhat “special” or “unique”._

_But a fucking desert? C’mon._

_He takes a few seconds to get his bearings, to breathe deeply and calm that racing pulse of his. Okay, okay, where was he?_

_He glances down and sees the circular plate underneath his feet, the silver reflecting the sun like the freaking moon. The thing’s just wide enough for Dean to stand comfortably on, but to get into a running position would be impossible without taking a step off. He wouldn’t take his chances._

Alright _, he goes down his mental list, made up on the spot, alright,_ what else, Winchester? What else is there? 

_The Cornucopia catches his eye almost immediately, standing exactly where Ellen said it would be: right in front of him, maybe a little more than forty yards away from his current position. Not a far sprint, but Dean knows he’ll have to be fast. The sand would most definitely weigh him down, slow him. He’d just have to be faster._

_A ring of tributes all stand around the Cornucopia, and Dean doesn’t stop himself from thinking_ one ring to rule them all, _where he would have chuckled had he been in a more suiting scenario. He bites down on his tongue instead. He looks to his left, a girl with brunette hair and a roundish face standing ridged on her plate. Dean thinks she’s one of the tributes from District 4, but then again the light is bright and giving him a headache. On his right, a tall boy with blond hair who appears to be roughly Dean’s age. Dean can’t place where he’s from.  He searches for Cas, though. His eyes quickly scan around the ring, looking for dark hair, blue eyes. Water in this barren desert wasteland. Dean has no such luck. There’s no sign of Becky, either. He wonders if he should call out for them when he sees the holographic countdown hovering above the Cornucopia, and it’s descent from sixty begins._

_Dean imagines with regret the mines. Imagines the cigarettes the must be getting passed around as the worker’s eyes stare attentively at the screen in the dark. He sees Ash, sighing sadly at his empty pack, and perhaps not because all his cancer sticks are gone. Maybe because it hasn’t rained in 12 for days, and they were all smoking in a fucking coal mine, watching. Wondering if Dean would make it out._

_Small red sparks would be seen like fireflies as they waited, and flakes of ash would tumble to the floor, and he wishes he were there, smoking alongside them._

_Forty five seconds._

_He glances around at the arena again, eyes hungrily searching. He plans to sprint into the Cornucopia and pick up a bag, a gun if he was extremely lucky, and bolt out of there, but where could he go? A little off to his right is a thick jungle, and he considers it briefly before decide ding against it. He hears Bobby in his head, mentally slapping him._

Really, boy? _Bobby would say,_ You don’t know what kind of dangerous shit could be in there! Poisonous plants or animals that’ll kill ya in your sleep. Nah, pass it, Dean. At least until you learn more about it. 

_Thirty seconds._

Okay _, Dean thinks, his mind working in a frenzy,_ where else? What else does this place have to offer? 

_Straight behind him lies a lake, and Dean is almost certain it’s fresh water, due to the bright green grass that grows all around it. It’s out in the open, vulnerable, however._ _Dean grits his teeth. There’s not a lot of options until on the left he notices the crevasse.   A large crack in the ground, Dean sees it opens up into almost a canyon, and that gives him hope. That means possible caves, possible hiding places._

_Twenty seconds._

_The explosion goes off at fourteen, loud and deafening, and Dean nearly falls off his circle. It seems that everyone else is startled the same way. Someone had stepped off and gotten themselves blown into the sky._

_“Cas,” Dean croaks out from shock, and his heart stutters. He panics, and he can’t breathe and there’s black spots dancing in front of him that he can’t swat away, and the count reaches ten._

Oh, God, don’t let it be Cas. 

_S_ _ix, five, four, three—_

_And Dean tries to swallow the fear._

_Two._

_Closes his eyes._

_One._

_Opens them._

_Zero._

***

Dean didn’t even hear the gong sound, the blood circulating through his ears much too thunderous. He was already running, feet kicking up sand behind him as he ran. 

 _Faster_ , he thought, _C’mon, run like you mean it, Winchester._  

There was movement that he picked up from the corner of his eye, and he realized it was the blond boy he had seen earlier, catching up to him, and Dean gritted his teeth together, refusing to acknowledge the fatigue in his legs already beginning to take him. He pushed himself to be quicker, for longer strides, almost stumbling over the soft ground. 

As it turns out, Dean was one of the better runners, arriving with a good five second lead. The world blurred around him, everything moving, everything alive, breathing. Inhale. Exhale. A beast disturbed, waking up. His hands come to life and work almost on their own, picking up a blue and grey backpack and swinging it onto his shoulders.

  _Weapon_ , his brain panicked, _get a weapon._  

His eyes searched frantically, hoping for a gun, until they rested on a sheathed knife, about five feet away. It looked to be a good size, and Dean practically leaped for it when a sudden flare of pain collided into his ribs. He collapsed to the ground with a groan. 

_Get moving, soldier! Get that ass moving!_

Those words echoed through his head in his father’s voice. 

He began to army crawl towards the knife, the sand thick underneath him. The first cannon fired when his fingers curled tightly around the handle, the metal burning slightly, and a foot came crashing down on his wrist. A yelp erupted from his mouth. A quick glance up showed Anna’s red hair glistening against the hot sun, a sword in her hand. She was about to bring it down and bury it into Dean’s neck, when another cannon boomed through the desert, and her attention was caught elsewhere. Her weight shifted off, and Dean wasted no time in getting back on his feet. 

The air altered behind him in the heat, he could feel it, and he twisted around, unsheathing the blade and the flat cut connected with a sharp _clang!_ against a metal spear, wielded by the dark skinned boy from 11 that Dean recognized. 

He threw a kick out, catching the other tribute in the chest, lifting the spear up and away from him, but the boy recovered quickly and attempted a jab at Dean’s stomach, only to be greeted again by Dean’s blade. They spar, on and off like that, one strike and one defence to parry it. 

The boy tried again, flailing the weapon wildly, and Dean side steps it with minimal room to spare, heart pounding too hard. 

A cannon goes. Then another, and each time it rings through his ears, startling him to trip and fall backwards, grunting from the impact. 

_(cas)_

Dean back-pedalled himself, hands fighting against the sand, trying to get away from the boy with the spear as fast as he could, but soon his shadow masked Dean, and he felt as his heart nearly stopped. 

_(sam cas oh god wheres cas sam sammy im coming home i promised)_

Here was a boy about to push a spear right through him, and Dean didn’t even know his name.  

This was someone in front of him, about to end his life, and Dean knew nothing about him at all. If he had a family back home. Little siblings to take care of. 

If he was just as scared… 

The spear was lifted above the tributes’ head. 

_(god tell sammy im sorry)_

So it was true, what his father had said. Dean couldn’t last a single day in the arena. Just dead meat on the counter. 

_(let sammy know its not his fault its not his fault tell him im sorry)_

But before his lips could even shatter the broken air, an arrow head spiked through the other tributes throat, and Dean watched as the boy’s eyes widened in surprise. There’s a moment. Less than a bat of an eyelash, when another one came bursting through, right underneath the first, and Dean swore he could hear a faint clash of metal scraping under metal. 

Blood erupted from the spots, like fireworks exploding into the night, yet without a sound. The body toppled into the sand.  

Silent. Without a scream, or cry. 

Broken fireworks. 

And there’s the moment after, where Dean wants to scream for him, watch with horror as red began to pool, dying the grains between his fingers, the cannon nothing more than a rumble in the distance in comparison to the tempest in his ears. He wants to scream. 

But he doesn’t. 

He he doesn't because he _can’t_. 

He can’t, because if he wastes time, a second, a moment, he’s a goner, and he needs to survive this. 

Dean wasn’t about to let himself die in here. 

 _(because the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die)_  

He heard his name in a shout, and he turned his head up to find Cas, another arrow already loaded onto a slack bowstring, jaw clenched, hair tousled, and already a big red smear had found its way onto his cheek. 

But the most startling thing were Cas’ eyes. 

Whatever blue sky that had been there this morning, where the sun shone through Castiel’s dark hair, over his tan skin and beautiful form, the blue of grace in the angel Dean held dear, was gone. Swept away by a wrathful ocean, slammed against the rocks. Drowned. 

_(they caught him in a storm)_

They were no longer the sky. No longer heaven.  They were a hurricane.   They were fear, they were love and rage and hate and sunken stars and ships in the abyss. Eyes that showed pain, and a deep sorrow. 

And Dean found himself afraid of them. 

He heard his name again, louder this time.  “Dean! Move!” 

He did, swiftly pushing himself back up after he found his knife again, gripping it tightly, ready to start swinging, when a firm hand pushed against his shoulder blades. 

“Go!” Cas yelled, voice hoarse and almost completely veiled by the sudden sound of gunfire. 

Shit. There were guns, and Dean hadn’t even found them yet. 

His feet stayed planted. He wasn’t going anywhere, even when Anna came back with her sword glinting in the sunlight, murder spelt in her expression, another Career following close by her side. 

“Dean, start running, damn it!” 

“You’re really stupid if you think I’m leaving you behind!” Dean cried back, trying to place where the shots were being fired from. “I’m not going anywhere!” 

Cas turned to face him for a second, and as stubborn as Dean was, he could still see the scared looked on his fiancé’s face, a look that Dean knew all to well. 

_(i don't want to lose you)_

“I won’t be gone long,” said Cas, voice low, waves crashing on a midnight beach, “We’ll find each other, I promise. Now run.” 

Cas spoke of this as though he were a husband, leaving on a simple business trip. Nothing more than that. So calm, so focused, that all Dean could do now was do as he was told. He ran. 

He ran, and he hated himself for it. Every step he took was a step farther away from Cas, leaving him in danger, in a position to die so easily. The word _coward_ echoed over in his brain, and Dean did his best to ignore it, and to just keep going. The gun fire grew faint, yet the cannons were still loud, and as the next one rang through the air, Dean couldn’t help but flinch. Because how many cannons had gone off already? How many children were dead today? How many mothers were shaking and crying out at home, because their kid didn’t even get a true fighting chance? 

_(i will never remember their names)_

Cas watched him. Not for long, just a brief moment he had to spare, looked out to the canyon crack Dean was headed for, sighing. To be honest with himself, it was a risk letting Dean go like that. The Cornucopia was just too bloody, too messy, and it was much too easy to lose him in a war zone like this. Dean could survive out there. He was a man of the wilderness, always has been, but Castiel was born to be a soldier on the front lines. 

He was a killer. An assassin the government shaped from clay. Art that wouldn’t obey the artists’ will. 

There was a prayer rising in his chest.  

Inhale. 

_Help him._

Exhale. 

 _Oh, Lord, help my miracle_. 

He drew his arrow back, nuzzled it to his jaw, and paused. Watching Anna, a girl who was meant to be on his side, and a boy with rage in his eyes. 

 _Do not go gentle into that goodnight,_ the poem whispered. 

He aimed, yet refused to fire. Not just yet. He had to wait. 

_Old age should burn and rave at close of day._

He would watch as the life left their eyes, their souls smoke from their mouths. Stride over their bodies without a word of regret, because they couldn’t stop him. No one could stop him. 

He was going to save Dean Winchester, even if it was on the last breath he ever took. 

 _Rage,_ it cried.

_Rage against the dying of the light._

Cas let the arrow fly, and listened as the sound of one last cannon shatter through the atmosphere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to ruin the intensity of the chapter, but I do want to apologize for the long wait. It took absolutely forever to complete this chapter! I did no writing on my trip, and when I came back I was hammered with catching up. Plus, this chapter was just hard to brainstorm for.
> 
> BUT they're finally in the Games! 
> 
> Hopefully next update will be much sooner than the last! Stay tuned!
> 
> \--Marina


	20. Chapter 20

**Soulless Is Everywhere**

It was the smell of rain that woke him the next morning.

The crisp, cold smell, and the familiar sound of thousands upon thousands of water droplets crashing down from the sky all at once. It was the metallic taste of it in the air as he sucked it in with slow breaths, savouring the flavour on his tongue, craving it more than anything. It was terribly damp and soaking in through his skin, a feeling he more than welcomed because it reminded him of home. The strange power of hydrogen molecules bonded with bits and pieces of oxygen, how it could transport him back to 12 in less than a blink of an eye.

And, perhaps, when Dean opened his eyes, he would find himself back in 12. In bed, thin sheets over his shoulders, body shivering, realizing that he left his and Sammy’s window open during the night, and that the draft and the rain crept in. He’d sigh, rub his face once over and blink a few rimes before getting up to close it, the chill biting him and a shiver running down his spine, but Dean would ignore it. He’d also ignore the nightmare that was playing over in his mind, and soon enough the bloody images and the screams all would subside, fade away until they were nothing more than a confusing blur. Shut the window, latch it, turn his head to glance lazily at the clock to see it be unruly hours of the morning, noting that his shift at the mines starts in a few hours. His joints would creak in a mock excitement.

Before returning to his own bed, his own warmth (thank God it wasn’t winter, or both of the boys would’ve surely woken up sick as the devil. Fool of a man—and even bigger fool of a brother—Dean Winchester turned out to be), he’d go over to Sam, pull the blankets a bit higher on his brother’s torso, hoping that he hadn’t been freezing all through the night. Sam would shift, just a slight movement, and Dean would smile and wonder what he was going to put in the kid’s lunch in the morning before work.

It was the rain that startled him out of the dream.

Dean lurched upright as a clap of thunder rolled over his head, heart rumbling just as loud, the name “Sam,” rolling as easy as anything off his tongue. Without thought, rhyme or reason.

It was dark in the cave, the temperature someplace below zero, and he made an effort to tug his jacket closer around him. His hands hastily wiped away the cold sweat from his brow, a slight shake in their structure.

There had been another nightmare, of course, leaving him with a maddening headache and a parched throat, as dry as the sand he slept on. A groan clawed from his mouth, and he reached blindly for the backpack, eyes slowly readjusting to the lack of light the cave had to offer. His fingers clasped around the fabric, and he pulled the item tight to his side as he searched the one pocket for the bottle of water, lips feeling swollen and aching. He drained half of it in one go.

And of course there would be nightmares.

After leaving Cas, (oh, how he regretted leaving Cas,) the canyon welcomed him with open arms. With no entrance on flat ground, he had been forced to climb down into the crevasse, knowing full well that he could become trapped in there with only his knife and backpack to protect him, but his mind was running too fast for him to worry. Dean lowered himself down, sweaty hands clutching to burning hot rocks. Blisters littered his already calloused fingers, stinging as sand slipped into the ones that had burst, and he hissed at them now as he poured some of his water over them.

He ran through the canyon, legs on fire, but the shade from the high walls being of some comfort. Perhaps about ten minutes later, after frantically searching, he found what he was looking for. A small opening, roughly a foot and a half high, but wide enough that a human such as himself could wedge himself through on his hands and stomach, and find themselves in a small cave enclosure. Dean covered up the opening with a pile of sand and didn’t come out until nightfall, back pressed against one of the hard walls, almost holding his breath, as though the devils were listening on the other side, and would kill him if he dared make a sound. Sometimes, he would swear a cannon would sound, making his skin crawl, but there was no way to tell if that was only his imagination or the loud ringing in his ears, playing tricks.

 _I shouldn’t have left Cas,_ he thought. _Jesus Christ, why did I leave Cas?_

Dean had been more than tempted several time throughout the afternoon to run back and find him, to call for him. The only thing holding him back is that Cas would never forgive him if he did.

_We’ll find each other, I promise. Now run._

The words were still as clear as day, a ringing bell that sang so softly, and that Dean never wanted to end, wouldn’t let go.

He had emptied out his pack, a small ration of bread, two water canisters (one which was full), and a bottle of what appeared to be aspirin now in his possession alongside the knife. In a smaller pocket, a pen and a small, black notebook. Not a bad start, although he’d still rather he had a good pistol over most of it.

When darkness rolled around, and when Dean heard the faint choir of Panem’s national anthem, he reluctantly pulled down his tiny sand barrier, and went to go look up at the names floating in the sky.

_(just to make sure just to be safe)_

Seven names appeared against the overcast clouds. Castiel’s not among them, and although Dean was more than grateful for that small blessing, his heart still plummeted right through the floor.

The girl from 3. Boy from 5. Girl from 7. Both tributes from 8. The dark boy from 11, and his name, Dean learned, was Thomas Tnuah. He wondered if people called him Tom, as the memory of his throat being punctured by Cas’ arrows overwhelmed him. He refused to think of Thomas for the rest of the night.

But it was the very last one that shook the earth beneath Dean’s, made the world tremble.

“Jesus,” he croaked. It was all he could get out.

Dean never considered that “Becky” was just a nickname. He had always known her as Becky. Becky, the girl with the horse like face and teeth. Becky, who stayed relatively quiet in loud rooms. Becky, who had a crush on Sam and adored him for saving her from bullies and teasing.

Becky, whose face lit up the sky like fireworks.

_Rebecca Rosen, District 12._

Dean wanted to throw up. He wanted to let himself be sick, he wanted to cry, wanted to claw his own eyes out goddamn it because the poor girl was thirteen and she didn’t deserve to die and Dean _failed_ her. He promised her he would get her out, and now her body was God knows where, cold and rotting and probably in a thousand pieces.

 _It’ll be okay,_ echoed in his head.

 

He had lied to her.

One of the last things he had told her had been a fucking lie.

Becky, who was more than what she appeared. Who enjoyed to laugh and run from the cameras with him, who was a big sister and who wore a cheap bracelet made by a three year old and treated it like diamonds, who cried on his shoulder because she was scared.

And Dean dared to wonder if her baby sister sat crying in front of a TV screen, if her mother was in ruins, and if he ever made it back to 12 if they would try and rip his throat out for not keeping their baby safe.

He wouldn’t blame them if they did.

If that wasn’t bad enough, his dream had been twisted and bloody, a mangled Becky standing in front of him with knifes in her sides and an eye lolling loose out of its socket, half her face pulled away. Asking, crying, _why didn’t you save me, Dean? You promised… you promised me, Dean, you promised…_

And there was that screaming. That dreadful screech of a faceless child being murdered, and he couldn’t block it out. All the world’s silence wouldn’t be able to block it out.

Now, he sat in the cave, remembering all of this, and he felt his stomach turn. The stinging coming from his torn blisters were loud and calling for his attention, and Dean bit his bottom lip in discomfort. In the end, to calm them, he cut strips of fabric from his pant legs and bandaged all the sore spots. A sigh of relief left his lips at the soft touch.

He had no idea what time it was, or how long he had slept. The heavy black sky gave him no indication whatsoever, when he went to collect the second bottle from outside, now full of rainwater that had fallen during the night. All he had to go off was his hunger levels, which had begun to skyrocket at the mere thought. Dean popped a chunk of bread into his mouth, letting the bland flavour sit on his tongue for a minute before swallowing.

It did almost nothing for him, but he pushed past the craving to completely stuff himself with his already tiny portions, taking a large swing of water of make up for it, ignoring the low-key growling that followed soon after.

Dean zipped his jacket up, tugging the collar close to his ears, swung the backpack loosely over one shoulder, and dug himself out, the rain finding him instantly, clinging to strands of hair and the back of his neck, sending a shiver flying down his spine. He shook his head, sending droplets flying, and ignored the cold.

Lightning flashed from somewhere above, lighting the canyon in a blinding glow.

Today was all about finding Cas and Kevin, and he couldn’t do that shaking like a dog with a tail between his legs.

So. He started to walk.

Dean had no clue how the hell he was supposed to climb out over the walls with the rocks being so slippery, but where there’s a will, there must be a way. Dean Winchester was always determined to find a way, and the day he wasn’t was the day his heart stopped beating. For good.

The rain was bitter, cold and heavy weight in his lungs. A part of him hated it, the sheets coming down so thick he could barely see five feet from him, yet the second part embraced it. He missed it. The chill, the droplets colliding with his skin. He wondered if it was raining in 12 right now, and if Sam was at school, watching it fall outside a window from across the room.

A piece of home. Nostalgia.

Eventually, Dean was lucky enough to find a chunk of the wall on a slant, tilted out of the rain, and he gave it a half grin before making an ascent, his makeshift bandages tearing slightly, but offering extra grip. They weren’t that high to conquer, maybe ninety metres at the very most, but sometimes he would find himself hanging onto a thin ledge by the very edge of his fingertips. Dean wouldn’t admit it, but by the time he reached the top, there was a faint strain pulling in his arms.

He allowed himself a few minutes of rest, taking a few sips of water, the rain catching on his lips. Another round of thunder, another quick flash of lightning. A few song lyrics crawled their way into his head, and he found himself humming as he continued on, to only God knows where.

_Link in to the world,_

_Link it to yourself,_

_Stretch it like a birth squeeze._

Dean vaguely remembered the song from an old CD Ash had gotten him for his fourteenth birthday. First track. He remembered listening to it late at night, with a busted walkman and malfunctioning headphones that were nearing their end. This was the track he was most fond of.

_The love for what you hide,_

_The bitterness inside,_

_Is growing like the newborn._

He was surprised he even still knew the words. The CD had gone missing some years ago, yet the song rang out in his mind like a church bell. Perhaps it was because he attempted teaching himself the rifts on his guitar, and the notes became engraved in his mind and fingers and lips.

_When you’ve seen, seen,_

_Too much,_

_Too young, young_

_Soulless is everywhere._

Dean chuckled. How fitting.

His shoes were drenched, gaining weight as they collected wet and murky sand. Inaudible music coming from nowhere. When his feet touched grass, harder ground, after a loss of time flowing by, he realized he was on the lake shore. Dean wasn’t even sure where he planned to go upon leaving the canyon, where Cas could be. The cannons had been silent since the previous day, the thunder making him jump. He supposed the jungle would be where Cas would be. How he would find him in that mess, Dean didn’t have the slightest idea. 

But he always found a way, of some kind.

_Hopeless time to roam,_

_The distance to your home,_

_Fades away to nowhere._

Cas was still alive, and Kevin was still alive. That was enough to keep Dean’s legs trudging foreword. That one song from long ago with that jagged guitar line.

_How much are you worth?_

_You can’t come down to earth._

_You’re swelling up_

_You’re unstoppable._

Dean thought, jokingly, that maybe the God Cas believed so much in was playing a sick joke on him. Have a long forgotten tune going, one that suited his situation so perfectly, and have him forget the name.

A sick joke.

_Cause you’ve seen, seen_

_Too much._

_Too young, young,_

Almost cruel.

_Soulless is everywhere._

That was when Dean heard the rush of pattering footsteps running up behind him.

There was no time to draw his knife from his belt. He barely has time to think, the footsteps too close for him to do much. Dean twisted around, just in time to side step a good sized handful of _person_ coming at him at one hundred miles an hour. A flash of brown hair flew past, just as he stuck his leg out to trip them, wasting no time to throw himself on top of the other tribute with a knee placed firmly between her shoulder blades, pulling her arms behind her, wincing at the shriek she made.

“Let me go!” the girl cried, wriggling furiously to escape his grasp. But Dean held her down firmly, too heavy for her just to throw off so easily.

“Should’ve learned to be quieter,” Dean hissed at her, drawing out his knife. His hand was shaking. “Been faster.”

Then, Dean recognizes her hair, her face with its coat of mud. He seen her train at the tower, dully remembering walking into her interview, lips still linger with Castiel’s taste. She was from 4, yet her name had abandoned Dean’s brain. Not that he cared.

“How does a Career like you get caught like this so easily?” Dean wonders out loud, but the Career doesn’t answer. Just keeps fighting and grunting under his knee. “Didn’t they hardwire into your brain to be fucking careful?”

He didn't know if he could go through with it.

Dean picked a spot, where the girl’s hair split apart to reveal a small piece of skin on her neck. He could just plunge the blade straight in, her cannon would fire, and he would be done with her. Another one bites the dust. One less threat he had to worry about.

But killing another person was a lot different than taking down mountain lions. People were more like deer. Terrified, jumpy, startled.

_(innocent)_

Yet, what was the difference between people and animals?

He held his breath for a moment, before hoisting the knife higher above his head, and that’s when she screamed.

“Wait! Wait!” she shouted, and Dean reached around and slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Shut up!” he hissed low, over the rain, “If you do that again it definitely won’t be me who kills you.” He slowly pulled his hand away, ready to silence her again if need be.

“Castiel,” she coughed, “I know where you can find Castiel.”

The rainfall somehow became louder, dull against his ears and soaked hair, heart thundering and raging in the far off distance.

“Liar,” Dean whispered between his teeth. “Fucking liar.”

“It’s the truth!” The girl tried fighting him again, yet Dean refused to let up. He laughed. “You better believe me, it’s the goddamn truth!”

She squirmed, one of her hands getting free and she tried to hit him, but Dean only took it and twisted it behind her, and her voice cracked with the pain and the pressure. It brought back memories of when he had broke Terrance Manning’s arm back in ninth grade. Only Terrance had just been picking on Sammy. _She_ was most likely plotting to murder him. Using Castiel as bait.

What a dirty, dirty move.

He leaned down, mouth next to her ear. More thunder. More lightning.

“I don’t believe you."

He didn’t remember when he came to terms with becoming a killer.

There was no contract. No line to place a sloppy signature, no place to sign away his soul. He thought he remembered telling Cas, while under the sheets of the bed they shared, that he didn’t want to kill anyone in here.

Dean was wrong. He could feel it in the rush under his veins, the growl in his throat. There was some kind of bloodlust, a desire he never knew. Never knew he _wanted_.

I’m a monster, he thought.

They _all_ were monsters.

And Dean would never know if it was the devil or God or just pure luck that held that moment off, because the girl began to talk again, and suddenly Dean felt very sick.

“The lullaby he sang you!” she cried, sounding completely desperate, “The night before the Games, he said it was called… he said it was called 100 Suns. He told me you would know it.”

There was almost a complete minute of silence, the rain an eerie static that buzzed with an electric feel. There was a beast in him now, clawing at Dean’s ribcage, trying to pry them apart and tear his skin away. A last-ditched attempt to break free.

And that terrified him.

The knife plunged down, and the Career gasped as it buried itself in the sand two inches from her face. Dean stood, ignoring her coughs and sputters after the removal of his knee. He tugged the knife from the dirt with a swift pull of the hilt. “I swear to god, if you’re lying, I won’t miss next time.”

 The girl popped herself back on her feet, wet sand caught up in her hair and stuck on her round cheeks. “I gave you proof. What more do you need?”

“I don’t trust you.”

The girl chuckled. “Why? Because I’m a Career? Sorry, kiddo, that’s just the way I was born. I didn’t have a choice.”

Dean just tilted his head. “Not really. More because of this…”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and twisted her around, spreading out her arms and legs and running her hands along her body.

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! This is assault!”

Dean muttered something in a voice too low for her to hear, followed by a little “a-ha!” His hands left her, and in the centre of his palm laid a bright red Swiss Army knife.

“It’s called a pat-down, sweetheart,” he smirked. The girl just rolled her eyes, and dusted her pants off.

“Well, at least buy me dinner first,” she grumbled.

“You gonna take me to Cas or do I have to shank you and find him myself? Let’s get moving.”

The rainfall lessened as they go around the lake, and a thin beam of sunlight broke through the overcast, shining on the two tributes as they made their small exodus. Dean began to shiver, not realizing just how soaked and wet he was, or how cold he felt. He tried to push that away though. The blade rested in his hand in case if the girl attempted to run or sudden attack him, even though her little weapon was tucked safely in his breast pocket. She was ahead of him by a few paces, leading the way.

“What do you call yourself, handsome?” she asked, not bothering to look back. Dean hesitated on the response. “Oh, c’mon. They must call you something. If don’t answer, I’m just gonna call you Nothing.”

He gave in. “Winchester,” he said gruffly, “You?”

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

“Not with people like you, I don’t. Now what’s your name?” 

“Ooh, harsh,” she mocked a hurt tone, “Masters. My friends call me Meg.” She stopped walking and turned around. “You know, Castiel calls you Dean. Last name basis is too professional for our work environment.” Meg grinned. “He was worried about you for the past day and a half.”

_I was worried about him._

“Any chance you know what time it is?” Dean asked, one because he was curious, and two because he wanted to change the subject. He wouldn’t discuss Cas with her.

Meg shook her head. “Nah. Castiel has a watch on him, though. He’ll know when we get back to the camp.” 

Now Dean was more convinced that she was telling the truth, knowing full well that Cas’ token was a black wristwatch, a present from Lucifer. “You guys have a camp?”

“Just a temporary one. Really it’s just a slanted tarp, but it gives protection from the rain. I wanted to find someplace safer, more secure, but he refused to go any farther until we found you.”

Dean frowned. “He sent you to come find me?”

“Technically, yes. Only because I suggested it. He had been out all night trying to find you, armed with only a few arrows and that bow he scavenged from the Cornucopia. He insisted he go back again this morning, but he would’ve died from exhaustion. That’s where I came in, and here we are.”

Dean wanted to say _thank you_ , but the words couldn’t find their exit. He kept his mouth shut.

“How did you and Cas meet?” They were walking more side by side now, Dean still on guard, but he was interested how Cas came to trust her.

“If you’re thinking online dating website, then you’re head is way out of it. Early on in his manhunt for you, I found him and followed him for a good ten minutes. I was wondering if I should kill him. After all, he was good looking, rival district, but I wasn’t sure if I could take him down. The entire time he knew I was on his trail. Could’ve just turned and wasted an arrow on me. But he wouldn’t. Said too much blood was already split on his hands already.”

Dean gulped, remembering the way Cas had almost effortlessly taken down Thomas. The storm that had raged in his eyes, that gaze that had frozen Dean’s blood.

He killed that boy to save Dean.

How many people do you come across that are willing to kill for you? To lose their humanity in a blink of an eye, a killer in an instant. All for you. Because given another second, Dean would have met the same fate as Benny. Speared right through, gasping like a fish caught out of water.

Castiel, who was gentle, and calm, and loving. Who wouldn’t hurt anybody.

Unless given reason to.

And Dean had almost killed someone today, someone who strutted in front of him with a certain cockiness to her stride and who had transformed from the enemy into hope in 0.2 seconds. Day two, and he was almost driven off the edge.

And then, a small memory came to him, and Dean found a small chuckle wander off his lips, before growing into a full out belly laugh, having to rest his hands on his knees. And Dean knew that his being loud could draw unwanted attention and get them both killed, but he couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t.

Meg raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s so funny?”

Dean wiped at the tears forming in his eyes, trying to get a grip on himself. This was the first moment of happiness he had, and perhaps the last he will ever get in a long time. He wanted to savour it.

“My dad was an old drunk when I left him,” he started, straightening his back, “Hell, probably still is. We had gotten into this big freaking argument like the night before Voting Day, and he was screaming at me that I wouldn’t last a single day in these Games.” He looked at Meg with a smirk. “I’m laughing because I proved the bastard wrong.”

“Better knock on wood, before you jinx yourself,” she commented, still staring at him like he was completely out of his mind. And Dean wouldn’t be shocked if he was. But here was a good moment, and he wasn’t about to let someone steal it away from him. This little spark of madness.

“C’mon,” he muttered after a while, still with a hint of that big dumb grin on his face, “Let’s keep going.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what to expect of you anymore. Too quick on going from zero to one hundred.”

“Ah, don’t try and psychoanalyze me yet, sister. We just met.”

“And less than ten minutes ago you were ready to pull a Jack the Ripper on me.”

Dean nodded in agreement. “Yep. Hopefully you don’t give me anymore reasons to try.”

They arrived to the jungle, and Meg led the way, over an hour of moving in and around trees and vines, both of them jumping at small noises. A strange bird song was heard, with a melancholy tune, and Dean tilted his head to one side, as though to hear it better. The bird fell quiet all too soon, and they were back to walking in a haunting silence once more, the faint noise of their breaths against the cool air.

“Sure you know where you’re going?” Dean questioned after sometime, a certain darkness cast by the trees making his chest seize slightly, feeling claustrophobic. Meg nodded.

“It’s not too far from here, just be patient, princess.” Dean gritted his teeth at the nickname, but kept his mouth shut. He was doing good for keeping his cool. His eyes caught sight of a small light up ahead, and Meg pointed to it. “There,” she said calmly, trudging towards it.

Upon closer approach, the little temporary camp that Meg had mentioned came into Dean’s view, the tiny light being a small, sheltered campfire, and Cas sitting underneath the brown tarp, tending to the baby flames.

Dean’s stomach soared at the sight of him, the time they spent apart feeling like a thousand forevers. Cas’ hair was sticking up at odd ends, dark circles eclipsed under his eyes, and that nasty gash on his cheek remained, as violent and vibrant as Dean remembered it.

He was a mess. Yet Dean still smiled.

Castiel heard them coming through the trees, and his exhausted eyes glanced up, expecting to only find Meg, empty handed, shrugging, saying they would find Dean tomorrow. And his heart would sink, and there would be that pit of hopelessness that he would begin to descend into, not really sure where to turn next. So it was indeed quite a pleasant surprise when he looked up and saw a man just as dirty as he was, with bandaged hands and a quirky upturn of his lips.

Cas stood up, fast enough that dark spots danced in front of his eyes and that he suddenly got lightheaded, but he couldn’t care if he fucking passed out.

“Dean.”

And Dean’s eyes just lit up like fireworks.

“Hey, Cas. It’s been a while.”

Suddenly, they were both stumbling to get each other, Cas practically jumping over the fire, flames licking at his legs, before finding himself wrapped tightly in Dean’s arms, and Dean burying his face into Cas’ neck like there was no other place in the world he would rather be.

This was what home felt like.

They were _home_.

They smelt like dirt and dust and faintly metallic, but this was home. Dean ran his blistered hands up and down Cas’ back, holding him so damn close, pulling back only to look into those familiar blue eyes that he loved so much. He let his thumb gently graze over the long scar on Castiel’s face, wanting to lean in and press his lips to it, as though a simple kiss could heal it and let the scar fade. He refrained.

“I was so scared, Dean,” Cas muttered, pushing himself back into Dean’s shoulder, “What if we couldn’t find you?”

Dean shushed him gently. “Hey, hey it’s okay,” he whispered back, his hand trailing in through Castiel’s dark hair, “I’m here now, it’s alright. You don’t have to worry, I’m not going anywhere now. I swear, Cas, I’m right here.”

“I told you to run without thinking,” Cas went on, “I shouldn’t have separated us, it was stupid of me.”

Dean just chuckled. “And I shouldn’t have left you. Should’ve stuck with you. That was cowardly of me. I’m sorry.”

They held each other close for a moment longer, before Meg coughed, and they both jumped with a start. She had a bit of an annoyed smirk on her mouth. “Okay, you two, save it for the bedroom. What’s the time, Clarence?”

Dean gave Cas a confused look at Cas at the strange nickname, raising an eyebrow.

“She gave it to me when we first met. When I had an arrow pointed at her throat,” he explained briefly, a bit under his breath. He peered down at his watch, clinging to his wrist. “Ten past seven. Not late yet, but perhaps we should try and get an early—”

A loud and ear shattering _BANG_! erupted out of the sky, cutting Cas off, and immediately their attention turned to the sky. Through the trees, an aircraft passed over them, unusually low, and Meg grabbed both boys by the arms, tugging them underneath the tarp. When Dean questioned why, Meg just shook her head. “In case,” she muttered. “Just in case.”

The aircrafts’ drone soon faded away, and the three were left alone in an eerie quiet. Cas stomped out the fire without another word.

As the darkness began to settle in quickly, the trio discussed their plans for the next day, Dean mentioning the safe spot he had rested in after the first day. “I could probably find it again. We’d have to climb down, though, until we can find an easier access. Won’t be easy.” He motioned to his bandaged hands, but the other two agreed. They would set out for the canyon as early as they could, Cas setting an alarm on his watch for six am.

Dean volunteered to take first watch, despite his tired body, stationing himself at the base of a tree, sitting with his hands slack on his knees and knife by his side. He cursed himself silently for not having a gun, and hoped that they would come across one with some ammo soon. Occasionally, he would look back at the tarp and see Meg, fast asleep with one arm lazily tossed over her eyes. Cas however, was sitting upright, staring down at his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them, and Dean watched as his chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. Cas glanced up, and the two made eye contact.

So, Cas stood and walked over, and took a place beside the watchman.

“You should really try and get some sleep,” Dean commented, and Cas gave a small laugh.

“I know,” he said, “But I can’t. My mind’s too busy with thoughts and words. It’s going out of control.”

An idea struck Dean, and he pulled the backpack from his shoulders, reaching into one of the shallow pockets. “I have something for you,” he said, catching the blush on Cas’ cheeks. When he held out the notebook and a counterpart pen, Cas’ face exploded into the biggest smile Dean had ever seen on him, and laughed, full-heartedly this time.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said, taking the gift and flipping through the pages with his thumb, “Thank you. This means the world to me.”

“Now you can keep all the thoughts waking you and write them down. Write some poetry while we’re in this godforsaken place.” Dean tilted his head back and stared up at the tree tops, getting a glimpse of the dark blue sky through the branches.

“I think I will,” said Cas in return, “I think I will.”

His gracious blue eyes flowed over Dean before he reached over and, with great care, lifted one of Dean’s hands onto his lap, his own fingers tracing over the makeshift wraps. “We should change these soon,” he mumbled, bring the hand to his lips and pressing them softly to a sore spot. A shiver was sent spiralling down Dean’s spine, and he allowed Cas to continue touch him like that. Kind. Slow. Careful. “Your blisters could get infected if we don’t.”

“Ah, don’t worry about me,” Dean said, with a small grin, “They’ll be fine.”

Cas stared at him with doubt in his eyes, and sighed again, bringing Dean’s hand close to his chest.

“Dean, I’m really sorry about what happened to Becky,” Cas whispered, and Dean squeezed his hand hard. “I saw her name in the sky…”

“ ’S okay,” Dean could only mutter back. It was just another lie, of course, but he pretended it was okay, at least a little, then at least the tears would keep themselves at bay. “It was bound to happen, I think. She was dead terrified. Maybe easier that it was the first day.”

Cas nodded solemnly, letting silence rest between them. A few animal sounds made their way to their ears, bird chirps and croaking that sounded like frogs. Sometimes Dean would see a crow fly overhead. Then, without another word, he felt the ground shift beneath him as Cas scooted closer, wrapped an arm around Dean’s waist, and had Dean lean his head against Cas’ shoulder.

“Whatcha doing?” Dean asked curiously. There was a slur to his words.

“I’ll take first watch,” Cas mumbled, “You get some rest.” When Dean began to protest, Cas just shook his head, pressing two fingers against Dean’s lips. “You’ve had a long day. You’re experiencing loss, and you’re too stressed at the moment. It’s better if I do lookout for now. After all, I can’t sleep anyways."

Cas started to sing that lullaby again, just audible enough to reach Dean’s ears, filling him with a warmth and love so similar to that of his mother’s. Listening to the song and the beating of Cas’ heart, just beneath his skin.

It was relaxing. Calming. Safe. For the first time since entering the arena, Dean felt completely safe.

And before Dean even knew it or could say another word, his eyes had fluttered close, and sleep over took him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Scorch**

There had been another dream.

Of course with Dean there are always dreams, ones that cause his heart to lurch up in his throat and panic ends up taking the controls, full of haunting visions or warped memories. There were always those kinds of dreams, and it was something that wasn’t easily cured or trouble-free to avoid. That’s why four hours was the magic number, why he worked overtime in the mines until he ran calloused fingers numb and dead, and that’s why Dean claimed that was all he ever needed.

That was, of course, until he met Cas.

Now, there would still be times where a nightmare would slip through under the radar, even under the protection of having the other boy present. Those types of tremors are rarely held off by such simple prisons, and they always find a way to creep in, one way or another. But there was something about Castiel that just made it harder for the monsters to get through and into Dean’s head.

It had been a sunny day, and he had been back home in 12, seated on the small front porch of the Winchester’s house. There had been something incredibly different about it, and Dean soon realized it was their first house. Before the fire, before Mary died, and the grass was greener than it had ever been in all of Dean’s eighteen years.

His guitar was in his lap, fingers working away their magic, soft chords resonating through the—was it spring? It felt oddly of spring— air. Somewhere wind chimes joined his song, and he knew he was smiling.

A child rode on a small tricycle up ahead, making poorly done sound effects and spit flying from his little mouth, brown hair hanging in his face. The bike would wobble and the _zooommm’s_ would keep coming and Dean would strum out a few verses to a song his mother liked and the sun would be gentle on his face.

 _Careful, Sammy,_ he’d call out, and the little boy would stop for a moment to shoot his big brother two thumbs up and a gummy grin before the wheels would turn again, heading only God knows where.

A hand fell to his shoulder, and Dean glanced up to see blue eyes gazing back, and Cas took a seat beside him with a creak and settling of wood. Dean dropped his hand from the strings and moved it to intertwine their fingers.

And that’s there was. Just a simple dream. No fear, no demons or devils or blood or wings, nothing to send him spiralling awake into reality’s harshness.

Just a simple dream.

 

 

***

 

 

Cas’ alarm beeped him back to life at six a.m., just as promised the night previous, and Dean reluctantly opened his eyes. The first thing he came to notice is that his head was still resting comfortably against Castiel’s shoulder, his one cheek buzzing from numbness of having been pressed there for quite some time.

The second thing that caught his attention was how incredibly well rested he felt.

Dean jolted upright, mouth dry and head feeling hazy, but that wasn’t what mattered at that moment. He turned to Cas.

The watchman had jumped slightly at Dean’s sudden movements, but the shock quickly withered away and replaced with the most exhausted smile Dean had ever had to bear witness, and it seemed Cas was barely holding it together. Dark circles eclipsed his sharp blue eyes, the two colours in no way matching and appeared to be battling for some kind of dominance.

Dean had slept soundly through the entire night, never once woken to take second watch.

Guilt surged through him and built a dam inside his chest, the water collecting fast and about to burst, although no matter how many _God, Cas, you should’ve woken me_ ’s or _What the hell is wrong with you? You’re human too you dumb ass_ ’s, the groggy grin refused to seep away from Castiel’s face.

“You needed the rest,” Cas’ words slurred together, sounding mumbled and tired, “I wanted to give you at least that.”

There was a part of Dean that wanted to get angry, that wanted to snap and bare some teeth and to knock some sense into Cas so that he understood that Dean couldn’t be his centrepiece, not here and not now, that he would die because of decisions like that, and a thousand other things. Dean wanted to be angry at Cas for not taking care of his goddamn self.

And he tried. Most definitely, he tried. But no merciless words could find their way out, no intense glare would show it’s face. The wolf’s snarl came out as nothing more than a feeling of awe and the blush of his cheeks (and he was grateful it was still dark, so the cameras couldn’t catch it,) and a warm glow ignited in his stomach.

Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Fool,” was all he could manage. “What a fool.”

He would’ve leaned in and kissed that stupid smile right off Castiel’s face if they weren’t in the arena, if there weren’t cameras everywhere monitoring their every move and displaying it to the whole world. If it wasn’t something that the Gamemakers could easily take and use against them.

He was tempted, though. Immensely tempted.

What a damned world he was in.

Dean went to wake Meg, and they moved to pack the tarp with haste. The faster they got moving, the better. Meg tossed the bag it came from over her shoulder, Dean storing any other supplies in his backpack, and the three began their trek unto the darkened desert.

The sun hadn’t cracked the horizon quite yet, the sky black and hard looking, like a stone that was falling on to the landscape. It was difficult to tell if it was overcast or not, since it appeared that the sky held none but at the same time there was a noticeable absence of stars. This observation caused a furrow in Dean’s brow, but he continued walking despite the oddity. It was dark, and that was good, for two reasons. The first being that it gave some shelter to prying eyes, and that they could walk around the lake unwatched without being preyed on by Careers. The second being that Dean couldn’t stand to see that smile Cas kept sharing every time they glanced at one another, a part of the blame still coming down on him. Seeing it in full light would only make him feel worse.

Dean was somewhat relieved, however, that Cas hadn’t woken Meg to take his place instead. There was something about her that didn’t settle right with him, as though she were a landslide waiting to happen and they were the mountain climbers attempting to summit. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

Meg was paced a few steps ahead of them, brandishing her army knife loosely in her hand should the need to use it arise. Dean had granted it back to her, rather reluctantly, knowing full well that none of them should walk weaponless in this environment. His own blade rested by his side, and Cas’ bow was slung across his back, quiver fully stocked.

He had walked perhaps ten feet when he was aware that Cas no longer walked beside him. He took a glimpse over his shoulder, restraining the sudden rush dread that flooded him, only to see Cas hunched over with his hands placed heavily on his knees. Dean quickly walked back to him, almost forgetting to tell Meg to hold up.

“Hey man,” Dean whispered, touching Cas’ shoulder and kneeling next to him, “You feeling okay?”

Cas emitted a chuckle that was soon engulfed into a yawn. “Just some fatigue, Dean. I’m fine.”

There was weight in his voice that Dean found concerning, and when Cas straightened back up his skin looked awfully pale.

“Want me to carry you, princess?” Dean snickered, trying to make some light of the situation, and instead was greeted by one of Castiel’s fists in his stomach.

“Shut it, Winchester,” Cas mumbled, but Dean caught the smile, and matched it.

Daylight broke, and heat overthrew them like an ocean almost instantly, soaking into their skin. The rain they say yesterday was probably the last they’d see in a long time, and Dean found himself gritting his teeth together at the thought. They would take a few minutes from time to time to give Cas a break, although he looked worse every time they did. Dean would practically force water down the sick boy’s throat, and he was grateful Meg had her own bottles so he wouldn’t have to split his supply three ways. The lake offered them a quick refill, although their time spent there was short, the paranoia of being scoped out from the forest or the canyon and catching a bullet between their shoulder blades holding them at a standpoint.

_(hostages to their own fears own scares)_

By the time they reached the canyon’s entrance, it was past midday, sunburn on Dean’s neck causing him to flinch at every touch. The top of Meg’s scalp had turned a nasty red, and Cas’ forearms were too pink for comfort. Dean swore to God if they came across some sunscreen, he would start believing.

There was an eerie quiet that seemed to resonate throughout the whole of the arena, the kind of quiet that left a white noise vibration sinking through your bones; disturbing ones peace of mind.

Dean made the descent into the canyon first, the blisters beneath screaming every time he found a hold in the rocks, wetness of blood and pus creeping through the bandages. When his feet touched ground a mutter of curse words flowed sharply from under his breath. A few dark spots danced in front of his eyes, and he blinked furiously to get rid of them.

Meg came down second, and Dean guided her down, one small step at a time until she plopped down beside him, palms bleeding slightly. For some reason Dean couldn’t help but smirk at this.

“Okay, Cas, you can start coming down,” Dean called to the top of the ledge. The shadows the walls cast felt cool on his skin, and he took a moment to relish in the feeling, and closed his eyes for a second.

When he opened them, Cas hadn’t moved an inch to start climbing. His body stood straight, face turned the other direction, and Dean could imagine the clockwork in his head going crazy.

“Cas?”

Another few seconds go by, and finally, Cas turns, eyes connecting with Dean’s. He said nothing as he came down the wall, and this of course got Dean curious.

“You okay?” He asked Castiel for what had to have been the ninth time today, but Cas just stared back up, a crease between his eyebrows and worried lines forming on his skin.

“I saw three frogs, Dean,” he spoke, softly, and careful as though he were treading on shattered glass. “They rose out from the sand, and they looked at me.” He blinked twice, before shaking his head. “It just found it odd. That’s all.”

“Whatever you say, Clarence,” Meg piped in, and Cas casted her a strange glare.

The trio made their way to the cave.

Cas almost didn’t make it. They stopped twice so he could dry heave off to the side, Dean occasionally pressing a few fingers to his forehead and to only be distraught by the rising temperature, which made it very clear that it was more and worse than just lack of sleep and some sunburn. Once, Cas almost passed out walking upright, which initiated Dean handing his bag to Meg, and hosting Cas up, fireman style.

And he swore for the rest of their journey, Cas was wearing a dumb sick smile, and Dean almost dropped him for that.

With some difficultly they managed to get Cas through the small entrance and place his back against the wall, where sweat was drenching off the poor boy’s face in a rainstorm, Dean wiping it away the best he could, and cupped his face gently.

“Guess where we are, mate,” he smiled, and Cas’ eyes fluttered open to face him.

“Am I dead?”

Dean chuckled. “Nah. You’re still far from there. You just have to get your sleep in and get lots of water in your system, and it won’t be so bad. Alright?”

Cas nodded, eyes drooping, carrying the weight of the day’s travels. Dean pressed a gentle hand to Cas’ forehead, noticing the faint fever that continued to reside there. He bit back the worry. _It’ll pass,_ he told himself, _It’ll go away soon enough. Rest and water, rest and water…_

Cas muttered something, barely a string of words, and Dean asked him to repeat it.

“… Hungry… don’t mean to… complain…” Castiel tried again, and Dean knew that exhaustion was taking over the younger boy, and he stroked a thumb over his cheek, which Cas gladly leaned into.

“Me and Meg will go hunting. You just focus on sleeping.”

With his own jacket, he created a makeshift pillow, and lowered Cas’ head to it, and within a minute, he was out like a stone. Dean suppressed the smile that wanted to show its face in a tiny victory stance.

“I thought you didn’t trust me,” Meg commented, playing with her knife, tossing it up and catching it by the tip of the blade. Dean shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t sweetheart. That’s why I’m dragging you with me.” He picked up his bag, one strap  hanging loose off his arm. “Now c’mon,” he whispered, “Or all three of us will starve tonight.”

 

***

 

The sun began its descent as they waked through the canyon, the wall’s shadows shielding their skin, both wielding their knives, a certain alertness to their shoulders.

“What are we even searching for, Winchester?” Meg groaned, “The sores on my feet are becoming killer.”

“Anything that moves, sister,” Dean replied, voice stricken with monotone overture. They walked side by side, a few feet apart, an awareness rising from both of them. After all, they were both trained killers now. One move and their blood could end up all over the canyon floor.

Some time passed, air cooling rapidly. Meg had dashed after a desert hedgehog and caught it with her bare hands, snapping the poor thing’s neck before it could even squeak out in surprise (Dean still found himself wincing at the sound of breaking bones,) but so far they were coming up empty handed. Empty handed, disappointed, and starving in a way that bread couldn’t suffice.

The cannons had been silent all day, and a confining quietness blanketed the two.

Dean began to think.

“Hey, Meg?” He said, stopping suddenly. He had just spotted a lizard, roughly four or five inches, crawling slowly up the wall. Without another moment wasted he flung his knife towards it, and with a sickening _thud_ nailed the animal in its place.

“What’s up, Winchester?”

“What do you think is so special about this place?”

The girl raised a confused eyebrow, although Dean missed it as he strutted over to retrieve his quarry, blade struck in the rock. With a good yank, the lizard came free, and Dean disposed of it in the sack.

“What mushrooms are you smoking?” she questioned, and there was only a part of her that was joking. “We’re in the fucking Hunger Games, Mr. Anderson, what else do you want from it?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Dean backtracked, “I just… Isn’t there supposed to be something different about the arena, for Quarter Quells? Something that makes them more dangerous or whatever? Think about it, and tell me that this isn't any different from all the other Games you've watched.”

Meg bowed her head, eyes to the sand, and she did give the idea some thought. She glanced back up, confusing resting in her expression. Dark hair tumbled into her eyes, giving a shadowy effect. Finally, she sighed.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re right?” she grumbled, followed by something along the lines of _fucking coal_ boy just under her breath. Dean grinned at that one.

“The thing is, if I am right about this… then what kind of fury are they gonna hang us with?”

There was a pause. A split second pause, and a gust of wind ruffled their clothing.

 

“Ah, stuff it,” Meg said with a huff, “You’re making me paranoid.”

Decided between them that it was too dark to continue hunting, they made their way back, winding through the simple maze. Neither of them attempted to bring up another topic of conversation, as the weight of the first one still pondered in their brains and rattled like closeted skeletons. Dean tried to make sense of it, to no avail.

The thing that bothered him the most was if they were going to find out what made this damned place unusual, or if they’d be struck dead before they could find out.

 

He just prayed that he and Cas would be _out_ before that. 

Just outside the cave, Meg stopped him.

“By the way,” she started, voice low, “Just wanted to let ya know, that little… _oddity_ , you got going on with Clarence—”

Dean froze, and thank God for bad lighting, because he could feel his face flush.

“—it’s super obvious, and really, there’s no use in keeping it secret all the way. Just try to keep it in your pants, kiddo, just until I’m six feet under. Got it?”

Dean swallowed, and he leaned in close. “I swear," he hissed, "if you tell anybody about that, I’ll be the one to put a bullet through your chest, and your corpse will be sent home in pieces once I’m done with it.”

“Woah, relax,” Meg chuckled, “Don’t wanna run you off to anger management, bud. Besides, I have no intentions of spreading the latest gossip about your weird queer romance. That’s the Capitol’s job, after all. The only thing I can't exactly figure out, is how stupid you two had to be to fall in love with each other. You're bound to lose it all in here. After all, the devil's like to play with people like you. Hope you realize that."

A flash of teeth came through the night air in a smirk at him, and she slipped into the cave, leaving Dean with not much else but furrowed brows and a slight anger running through him. Meg Masters was a snarky Career who was definitely trying her best to pick at his skin and worm her way under it.

But he couldn’t deny that she had a good point.

He followed on after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I'm a shitty writer who takes two months to update. I apologize profusely.
> 
> However, I'm not giving up on this fic, so please don't ever assume I've abandoned it. It does take me a long time to do things, especially if I'm busy. But I hope, despite it being a sorter chapter, that you all still enjoyed it.
> 
> See ya next time,
> 
> -Marina


	22. Chapter 22

**Blackbird Run, Blackbird Run**

To Dean’s surprise and relief, Cas was sitting back upright when he entered the cave, the boy’s hair sticking to his forehead and in odd angles, splayed out on the rock wall behind him. But his eyes looked alive, the sense of an afternoon sky slowly trickling back into their magnificent crystal blue, and some of his normal colour was coming back to his cheeks. Dean walked in to sit beside him, inspected his temperature, and was thankful to find that it had dropped during Cas’ nap.

A low rumbling came from the cave’s outside, somewhere distant, and it went on ignored.

Meg went out and collected a few sticks from the canyon bed, and the three got a small, smokeless fire started, heat enclosing the petite space. Some time later the two animals were skinned and their meat—although not much—was stuck over the flames. Dean sighed, keeping his eyes to the fire, watching the way they danced and twisted into the thin air.

“We need to get out of the canyon,” he simply stated, paying no mind to the bemused stares from Meg. “Floral and animal life down here is incredibly low. There’s barely anything to eat, and we’ll end up killing ourselves from malnourishment. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

Of course, there was another reason for wanting to get out of the crevasse. There was a trapdoor somewhere, an exit, a dangerous freedom calling so loud that Dean felt he may go deaf from the desperate cries.

He saw Cas nodding from the corner of his vision. Apparently, he had the same idea as Dean. “Agreed. Leaving would be the best option, at this point.”

“But Dean,” Meg said, slowly, thinking it through, “This place is safe. You could get all the remaining tributes to run down here and I guarantee that every single one would miss the entrance.”

Dean inclined his head down, and bit at his lower lip. She was right. That’s why Dean brought them there in the first place. Because it was safe. No need to have a watch take place, no fear of anyone seeking them out and cut their throats in their sleep.

“What’re we gonna do here, then? Wait the Games out? Wait until the Gamemakers send a storm, flood the canyon and drown us? Nah. It’s bad if we stay here too long. Too lacking in resources to keep it anyways.” Dean brought his stick from the fire up to him, examining the muscle on the end, seeing if it was cooked all the way through. He decided it was, and took a bite.

They ate in mostly silence, an occasionally cough or sneeze from one of them that caused the other two to jump in their skin. When the lizard and hedgehog were fully consumed, stomachs nowhere close to being satisfied, Meg stomped out the fire, and the quiet made its uncomfortable return. Cas pulled out his little notebook, and started writing something, the scratching of pen against paper mixing with breathing, blue ink pouring over the page in a messy scrawl. It was a thin line no one dared to tread across.

Almost no one.

“Well, this is bullshit.” Dean and Cas’ heads swivelled at Meg’s statement, and saw her fiddling with a charred, skinny stick, treating its smoking remains like a cigarette. Dean swallowed hard at the sight, the craving for nicotine dropping straight into his stomach. It’s been so long since he smoked. Since he held a role between his fingers, huffing the chemicals in and out like a needy machine. He gave a side glance at Cas, whose face was scrunched up at the image, obviously disagreeing with the suggestion.

 _When we get out of this shit-hole,_ he thought, _I’m gonna quit. I gotta quit, dammit._

It didn’t stop the wanting, though. The yearning for a drag.

“Why’re we being so fucking quiet?” said Meg, rather annoyed, the stick hanging loosely between her plush lips, “We’re not complete strangers, after all. Might as well make some kind of conversation.”

When the two boys only responded with blank looks, she groaned loudly.

“Fine. Fine, idiots, I’ll start.” She stabbed her makeshift fag into the sand, and waved. “Hello, my name is Megan Masters, age sixteen, and I’m from District 4. We fish and shit. The ocean is really nice, I like it. Probably my favourite part about home. If I weren’t in the damn Hunger Games right now, I’d probably be lighting one up with my old friends by the pier. Any questions?”

Dean raised a hand.

“What.”

“You’re a Career. Why aren’t you working with the rest of them?”

Meg bit her tongue, tossing the question around in her head. Perhaps considering what should come from her mouth. The truth or not the true.

_(to be or not to be)_

“They ain’t my kind of crowd,” she finally settled on. “From what I took in during training, they’re the type of people who wouldn’t hesitate a damn second to commit a tiny genocide to win this thing. I’d be gone in three days or less, no doubt. Anything else?”

Neither of them had nothing more to inquire of the girl, so they shook their heads.

“Good. Novak’s turn.”

Cas suddenly stiffened, hands unsure of what to do with themselves until he merely crumpled them into a fidgeting ball in his lap.

“You know, most of this stuff was in the interviews. Didn’t you watch them?” Cas questioned, but Meg snorted in reply.

“Did you? Those are so boring, everyone faking big happy smiles and laughs. It’s such shit out there. Besides, even if I did bother taking the time to watch them, I would have gotten bored outta my mind. So, c’mon. Humour me. Pretend like I don’t know jack shit.”

This was weird.

They were in the Hunger Games. An execution set out on live television, for God’s sake, and here Meg was, starting kindergarden icebreakers. Wonderful.

Cas exhaled, rather loudly, and caved. “I’m Castiel Novak,” he began, “I’m from District—”

“How old are you?” Meg interrupted.

“Seventeen. I’m from District 1. Luxuries. Umm, I have a lot of brothers, but I’m the youngest. If I were home right now, I think I’d be reading. I always read. Or… or write,” he added, glancing down at the paper, his pencil tossing in another line somewhere on the page. “I like writing.”

_But I’m the youngest._

There was a spark of curiosity that arose in Dean, and he began to muse on if Cas was going to share any information about Hael. If he was going to talk about the Croatoan virus, and how it stole away his baby sister from him. His best friend.

But Castiel didn’t mention anything else about his family that day. And Dean understood that.

Meg smiled, obviously satisfied with the information Cas was pouring into the cup. “What kind of writing?”

Cas rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, mostly poetry. I’ve considered novel work a lot, but poetry seems to be my strong suit.”

“Wanna recite something for us tonight, Clarence? Got any originals you’re dying to share?”

Cas hesitated. He tapped his pencil on his knee once, twice, a few more times, eyes not really focussed on anything in particular. They quickly flashed to the page he was currently etching away at before removing them to somewhere else, leaving Dean to wonder what was happening in that intelligent mind of his when he spoke again.

“No,” he said, voice steady. “Not right at this moment.”

A part of Dean cringed in disappointment, curled away, a strange sadness clinging onto him. He had been excited about possibly hearing Cas read something out loud to them, always intrigued by the way Castiel was able to create a whole new colour from the mere use of words.

But then again, Castiel _was_ writing. So perhaps, later.

“You know, Clarence. You’re a Career, too,” Meg’s voice drawled. “Why are _you_ sitting here instead of walking among the beasts?”

Cas gave a small smile at the accusation, and a gentle chuckle. “Because,” he started,

_(i am a monster who refuses to be)_

“not my kind of crowd.”

Meg snorted. “What a way to quote me,” she mumbled. “Winchester, hit us with some interesting facts.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. My name is Dean Winchester. I’m eighteen years old, and I’m from District 12. By Meg’s definition, I am in fact a ‘fucking coal boy’.”

Meg sputtered out a laugh, and Cas gave her a stone cold glance. Dean caught a bit of a chuckle himself, and continued on.

“I had the job for a while, dropped outta school to get it. I have a little brother. His name is Sam. I, uh, I volunteered for him, during the voting process. It was a tie between me and him, and I wasn’t gonna let them drag my brother in here. He’s a good kid. Miss him a ton.

“I don’t get a lot of free time, but I like music. I can play guitar pretty well. That’s another thing I miss. Piano, too, although I don’t have one at home anymore.”

“Anymore? What happened to it?” Meg asked, but Cas tossed her a look that spelled out _don’t_ , and Dean was grateful for it. He didn’t have the energy to temporality relive the day his life got wrecked, age four.

“And if I weren’t here, well I’d be home with my brother, playing _Hey Jude_ until the sun went down. Even after that. ‘Till the moon didn’t shine no more.” He waited a second. “Yeah. That’s all I got.”

They went speechless once again, quiet claiming its rightful place.

“Well,” Cas said, “I suppose whatever was left of us strangers is gone now.”

Meg nodded. “Yeah,” she muttered, “Guess so.”

Soon enough, Cas went back to his writing, Meg stuck the stick back in her mouth, and Dean started tracing the sand beside him, words and little things, muttering a song under his breath. Had he been watching Cas, he would’ve noticed the little grin that was slowly starting to form there. He didn’t notice it at all, until that grin became a chuckle, and the chuckle became a laugh. Meg looked at Dean for some kind of explanation, but all Dean could offer were shrugged shoulders and just as much confusion.

When Cas lifted his head, there were tears coming from the corners of his eyes, which the laughing boy wiped away, catching his breath. “You doing okay over there?” Dean asked, and Cas just shook his head, still with that goofy smile.

“ _Hey Jude,_ Dean,” Cas giggled. “ _Hey Jude._ That’s by that band you talked about, the bugs, the—” Cas snapped his fingers, trying to fish out the word. “—damn, what were they called? Some kind of insect.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “The Beatles?”

“Yeah! Them!”

“What’s so funny about the Beatles, Cas?” Dean asked, his own smile coming on now.

“You remember that night, where we got drunk? In the Presidents’ palace? I was pulling you to the bathroom, you were wasted out of your mind. I remember you saying how much the Beatles were sissies.”

Dean shook his head, the memory rushing back and playing like an old film in his mind. “Oh, yeah,” he said, lips turing up, “I remember that. God, there were some good tunes that night. Not really sure why I said that ‘bout them, I have nothing against them as a band.”

“Drunk you seemed to differ.”

“I suppose so,” Dean laughed. “Maybe it’s because after my mom died we played a lot harder stuff. Dad had a collection of records of older, heavier bands from before the Dark Days. But when Mom was around, we had the Beatles on repeat. _Hey Jude_ was one of the first songs I ever learned to play on the piano. She taught me that.”

Castiel’s giggle slowly died off, but the smile remained just the same. “You’ll have to play it for me one day,” he whispered. “I’d love to hear it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yo, Dean-o,” Meg piped up, after having tuned herself out of their odd conversation, “You can sing, right?”

Dean blinked. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I can.”

“Well, you should sing something for us. Rock us to sleep, I’m getting tired.”

“Well aren’t you the little brat,” Dean commented jokingly, receiving a sneer from her end.

“Actually, that would be nice, Dean,” Cas stated, turning to Dean, face still slightly red from his laughing fit. “Plus, its getting somewhat late. If we want to get an early start again, we should get some shut eye. A song would be a lovely way to end the day, I think.”

And of course, how could Dean say no to those blue eyes that held his heart like that? That made him stutter and trip over his own two feet? Those eyes he might just die for one of these days, how could he turn them down a song?

The simple answer was that Dean couldn’t.

Wouldn't.

He sighed. “Alright. You’ve got me. Give me a minute, I’ll think of one.”

He went through all his mental files, going through the hundreds of tunes he knew, trying to think of something soft enough. He wondered if he should sing one by the Beatles, summon the lost souls of Paul, George, Ringo and good old Johnny. _Hey Jude,_ maybe. _Twist & Shout_ also came to mind, but that would be much better with a six string in his lap. One day he’ll play that for Castiel, too. Maybe when they finally get married. He smiled at the thought.

“Okay, got one.”

Dean took a few deep breaths, trying his best to remember all the lyrics from the last time he played it, a couple of years ago when Sam had a dumb nightmare and Dean sang it away.

He remembered how on the day of the Reaping, he had woken up to find a terrified Sammy sleeping next to him.

God, he missed Sam. He would think that everyday until he saw that kid’s face again. And when he did, he was going to sing this to him again. And again, and again.

Keep the nightmares at bay for as long as he could.

 

 

_“Blackbird singing in the dead of night,_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly._

_All your life,_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._

 

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night,_

_Take these sunken eyes and learn to see._

_All your life,_

_You were only waiting for this moment to be free.”_

 

Cas made a sound of content from the back of his throat, and closed his eyes, head against the wall. Meg stared at the ceiling, but her hand acted as a makeshift drum against her thigh, unconsciously tapping away.

 

_“Blackbird, fly._

_Blackbird, fly._

_Into the light of the dark black night.”_

 

Dean repeated the three lines, and by this time he could already spot Meg dozing off, her patting becoming slower and more dragged on. Dean grinned. It really didn’t take that much to send her to sleep.

Cas had rested his head on Dean’s left shoulder, breathing calm and steady, and Dean searched and found Cas’ hand, threading their fingers together between the heat of their legs. Out of sight, still in mind.

 

 

_“Blackbird singing in the dead of night,_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly._

_All your life,_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”_

 

He stopped, and patiently listened. Barely a sound broke through the veil he had created. Not a terrible veil, not one that casted them into the silence that sliced at their vocal chords and shushed them, shushed their tears and crying, but rather one that newborn children slept in. Peaceful. Without worry, without care.

Dean unfolded their hands to snake an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, pulling him closer into his side, his thumb stroking Cas’ arm, the action done with almost an absent mind. It felt good, being so close to him. To know he was safe and out of harms way, for the time being at least.

_(you won’t be able to protect him forever)_

He gritted his teeth together, anger swelling in his chest, vision glancing over that blatant red scar Castiel’s cheek bared.

“Watch me,” he mumbled to no one, and Cas stirred under his hold for a moment before going still again.

He supposed he was just tired. The day was long and with slight anxiety, Cas had gotten sick, although his temperature was finally levelling out, and Dean wished he could have leaned in and kissed the top of Cas’ dark hair, but instead rested his own cheek there. He left it there for a moment or two, before leaning back into the wall.

_(the demons are still scratching and the rocks will tumble and they will get you boy)_

Dean closed his eyes, took a few breaths.

_(johnnys gonna get you)_

_Go to sleep,_ he told himself.

_(gonna put an axe through that pretty face dean boy oh johnnys coming for you that faceless child will find you)_

_Go to sleep._

 

 

***

 

_The sky is open today._

_The sky is open, the sun pours through, and it sinks into his skin and freckles, casting blond highlights from his hair. There is no breeze to ruffle the bangs from his eyes, no mother to push them away. No father to place a hand over those innocent eyes, pull that boy from the crowd, to save him some pain._

_The sky is open today._

_Dean pushes his way through the mass of bodies, tall adults with worried expressions, clenched fists, some kind of prayer rising off to an inactive god. He sees them eye to eye now._

_He knows this memory. He knows it well, hates every second of it._

_The only difference being his age, and that’s how he came to know it was a dream._

_He remembers being 12, and what a terrible year that was. He remembers this crowd, the people, the sweat that rose above them. And he remembers the horror, above all. That same shared horror that held time in place._

_Nineteenth Annual Hunger Games, six years ago._

_The large screen in the square displayed the arena, a very forest orientated area. Cameras were following a young boy, fifteen—or was he fourteen?—_

(why cant dean remember why cant he even remember this)

_through the trees, not quite running yet, but always checking over his shoulder. A gash and torn sleeve on his arm, blood tracing veins down to his wrist and dripping from the tips of his fingers. The boy keeps moving, occasionally muttering a grunt of pain._

_Dean knows what’s going to happen. Of course he does, he’s lived this before, experienced all this tension and the fear and the loss before. But he can’t help but to hope._

_Maybe, just maybe, it’ll be different this round._

_“C’mon, Benny,” Dean breathes between clenched teeth, “You can make it. Just go hide, you can make it…”_

_Benny turns left, and there’s a crack of a stick snapping in half. He takes off, bolts now, branches from the trees swatting his face._

_Dean finds that its hard to breathe. The air feels thick in his lungs, and he can’t breathe. Benny comes to a clearing, and stops. Suddenly, he just stops. There’s nothing but silence and heavy exhales, and Dean’s hands find their way to the back of his neck and his finger nails claw at the skin in frustration._

_“Run, dammit, run!” he hisses, “Fuck, why won’t you just run!”_

_Benny’s shoulders slump, and he turns around. Across the opening, stands Lucifer Novak, eyes cold and face murderous, a little mischievous grin hanging on the edge on his mouth._

_“Run out of fuel, haven’t you?” Novak asks, twirling the long metal spear in his hand. “Tsk. Such a shame, really. I was having a lot of fun chasing you down, and now its going to be disappointing to waste such times.”_

_“Fuck you, rich boy,” Benny spits, chest heaving. Lucifer tilts his head, almost curiously._

_“Oh. I see. It’s not that you’ve given up. No, no, you haven’t let yourself be defeated just yet. You’re going to fight this one out, are you? Going to face the big bad wolf? What’s the phrase? ‘Go down swinging?’”_

_Dean could see the muscles tense in Benny’s back, posture straightening, eyes angry._

(god run you idiot go run run blackbird run)

_“How brave,” Lucifer mutters, “very brave of you.”_

_And now Dean can’t help but to scream. Because he knows what’s next._

_“Run!” he shouts, and now he’s alone in the square. “Go!”_

_Why does he never run?_

_The sky is open today, the sun bears down in his skin. But there is no warmth. There is no comfort._

_He is alone and his best friend is going to die._

_Isn’t that how it always worked? Dean would live, but everyone he every cared about would get lashed in the process?_

(run blackbird fly fly like you want to come home)

_There is a struggle between them, and it flashes by. Jabs of the spear, blocks of the hand, and blood doesn’t stop spilling. Then the head of the weapon buried itself in Benny’s neck, and all Dean could do was—_

 

***

 

—scream came first, and the cannon followed within a heartbeats notice.

The blast rang through the cave, sharper than thunder, startling Dean awake, voice caught in his throat.

It sounded like her.

“Becky.”

_Oh, God, it sounded like her._

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, weighted against the roof of his mouth, breathing fast. He could feel the cold sweat pouring off his brow, and quickly wiped the salt from his eyes.

The noise had also jolted Cas awake, alertness already on his face. In a flash, he was up, bow in his hand and arrow already cocked, and he crawled outside the cave. Dean was about to call after him until Meg shushed him from across the floor.

“It was close,” she whispered, “Way too close for comfort. They could be near.”

Dean glanced down at his hands, not realizing the shaking that was taking place in them. His right fist was curled around his knife, white knuckles displayed, although he had no memory of picking it up.

That scream sounded so much like her, and that scared him to death. Two days after she died, and he still had no idea how, or if it was painless, or if she emitted a sound in those last moments—

Cas came back in, lips pressed in a worried line, eyebrows creased. He picked up the quiver in one hand, stared at it for a brief second, and slung it across his shoulders. “It’s them,” he said with a serious, calm tone. “The Careers. The aircraft that retrieved the body was only three miles off, at the very most. They’re along the edge wall, above us. Higher advantage point. We gotta get moving.”

Meg’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” she hissed at him, “Castiel, we’re somewhere save, they can’t find us in here—”

“It’s eleven forty-two,” Cas said, and Dean could tell the tension that resided in his words, almost snapping, “They’re coming fast Meg, and just like you and me they were trained day and night since before they could talk, to hunt us down. If they see the cave, then we are as good as dead. So you can stay here and risk it, or you can trust me that I know what I'm doing.”

Dean got to his feet, and started collecting his items and throwing them into his backpack. “Leave the tarp,” Cas told him, “It’s too heavy, too bulky and will make us an easier target. If they pass by here we can always come back and retrieve it later.” Dean agreed.

Once all their things that they could carry were gathered, Cas lead them outside. The sky was lit up by the light of the moon, and Dean could hear Cas curse at it. Some ways away, on Dean’s right, he could see fire torches faintly in the distance and up the wall.

“Let’s go,” Cas mumbled, and started walking. “If we can, we get out of the canyon. If not, we’ll just have to take out best cover.”

“And if they find us?” Meg asked. Neither boy took it upon themselves to answer it. Meg just nodded solemnly.

They stuck to the shadows, bodies close to the rock wall, moving as quickly and soundlessly as they could. All of them had their weapons out, Cas with two arrows knocked on the string.

They had never walked the canyon all the way through before, none of them sure where it opened up to. _If_ it opened up at all, that was a question that was waiting to be answered.

The Careers voices carried, echoing off the rocks in a way that made Dean’s skin crawl. It felt as though they were walking right behind him, the barrel of a gun ready to slam between his shoulder blades and a trigger pulled and _poof_ , he’d be dead just like that, or for a bullet to take him from a distance in a sniper’s eye. Constantly, he found himself looking back, just to make sure, and nothing but shadows greeted his eyes.

But even the shadows had that killer stare, and no reassurance could be found in them.

Cas led the way, Meg close behind, and Dean holding up the rear. Every now and then Cas would stop and listen, a fist up to signal the other two, before continuing foreword. They moved slowly, as to not draw any unwanted attention to themselves.

The footsteps got closer, victorious voices grew louder.

They arrived at an overhang in the wall, and Castiel shepherded the other two underneath it, pressing themselves flat against the rock, Cas wedging himself on the end. A corner of his mouth twitched, as well as the fingers on the drawstring. Soon enough, the voices were almost above them, and he loaded a third.

Dean pressed a hand Cas’ chest, and shook his head at the cold glance he received in turn.

 _You’re out numbered, Dean_ tried to say. _And you’d get your ass handed to you._

It felt as though the four Careers stopped right above them, and damn them for doing so. Talking, yet no words Dean could make out from so high up. Some laughter.

None of them dared move, barely a breath exchanged in the tense air as they waited.

Dean prayed they wouldn’t be found. His free hand found the amulet that continued to dangle from his neck, and held it to his lips like a Catholic would to a rosemary, and he prayed.

_(all sinners will pray at the end of their lives if those sinners can find the time)_

One hundred thoughts flew through his head: Sam, the fact that Sam was watching. Holding his own breath, begging into darkness that Dean would be okay. His father, who was probably drunk off his rocker still, perhaps passed out on their living room floor. Bobby. Ash and Gracie, little Gracie whose name he had voted in and begged to no one that she would stay home where she belonged. Ellen, Becky. He imagined President Crowley on the edge of his seat, chuckling to himself.

Dean prayed that under this ledge would not be his grave, and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his heart pound so terrifyingly loud that the whole world could listen to the unsteady rhythm.

_(what uneasy sinners we are)_

_God, help us._

_(what terrible sinners we have become)_

The sky lit up, and the nation anthem played. Footsteps started back up again and faded, voices carried along with it, and very suddenly, it was over.

Dean opened his eyes, and glanced up.

A face of a girl was there, and she was perhaps fifteen, maybe sixteen. Blonde hair that trailed down her neck, and her stare was greatly startling.

_Jordan Channing, District 6._

“Bet you anything she was the one the Careers got,” Meg stated. Her voice cracked slightly, sounded dry, and was kept low despite the three being completely alone now. “Feel bad for her.”

Cas spoke up now. “That leaves fifteen. Us included.”

Dean swallowed. That left nine children dead. A seemingly low number.

He thought of Thomas on the first day, the way no noise had fled his mouth. He thought of Becky, he thought of Benny, and now he thought of this Jordan girl.

Would anyone remember their names?

Or would they be forgotten before long?

_(we sinners are pawns and we do not get redemption arcs)_

He felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder, along with a quick squeeze, and turned to see Cas with a sad smile on his face, and a knowing expression that seemed to be saying _I know exactly what you’re thinking Dean Winchester and you are not alone in your thoughts._

_(we only get what is handed to us)_

“Let’s go,” Cas mumbled, letting his hand fall back to the comfort of his weapon. “We have some distance to cover.”

 

***

 

As it turned out, the canyon neither came to a blank wall or was endless, but opened to reveal a sight that caused Dean’s jaw to drop.

“Is this…” he stuttered out, “Is this what I think it is?”

Meg came and stood along side him, laughing lightly. “Oh, you bet your ass it is, Winchester. You bet your ass.”

There was a beach. Salty air hit their faces, and upon glancing at the sky Dean could see the millions of constellations shining down at him, twinkling. He felt his throat close up.

“Oh, wow,” he whispered, as the waves crashed against the dirty white sand.

Dean had never seen the ocean before. Heard of it plenty of times, and never in his eighteen years had he found that it was all true. Endless bodies of water, eclipsing the earth in all their power and might. It went on as far as his eye could see, spread out straight and left and right. An island in the middle of nowhere.

“What do you think is out there?” he asked Cas, who had also come to stand next to the other two of their small fellowship. “If we started swimming, what would we come to?”

“Eventually, we would come to a force field,” said Cas, simply, although he sounded as in awe as Dean felt in the ocean’s sudden presence. “And then we would proceed to drown.” 

Dean shrugged his shoulders. “Guess you’re right,” he sighed.

Meg moved soundlessly beside him, first sitting down, and with patience removing her combat boots, stuffing her socks deep to the soles.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean asked, raining an eyebrow. Meg just grinned up at him, ear to ear.

“I miss home, kiddo,” she said, rolling up her pant legs. “I miss it like you can’t believe. The salt in the air almost tastes the same.”

She stood back up, brushing the sand from her legs and walked towards the shoreline, Dean and Cas both watching her a bit curiously. She got to the waves, and walked into them as though they had their arms opened for her. The water lapped lazily at her skin, and if it was cold, she showed no indications.

She walked knee deep and lifted her hands above her head. Dean could hear her laughing. Very true laughter, he might add. The kind you get from love. Cas chuckled.

“Like returning a fish to water,” he spoke gently.

“Yeah.” Dean said, and he couldn’t help but to give a small smile. “I suppose it is.”

They let Meg have her peace, connecting with the ocean, and they set up camp against where the canyon ended, although feeling vulnerable without their tarp. There was temptation to start a fire, but after the close call to the Careers, neither of them were very willing to risk an open flame.

They sat close to each other, Cas practically curled in the crook of Dean’s side for that spark of warmth, occasionally huffing a heavy breath into his cupped hands. Dean refrained himself from take them and warming them himself.

“Dean?” Cas said, very quietly.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think about her?”

Dean looked from Cas back to Meg, still standing out there, splashing every now and then, the big smile never faltering and never falling. Her hair was loose, flowing gently in the cool night breeze. He thought about the way she listened to _Blackbird_ , how easy it was to sing her to sleep. A teenager still swayed by lullabies.

 _(we still_ are _kids)_

Dean sighed. “Not bad,” he finally settled on. “She’s definitely not bad. Snarky, incredibly sarcastic, but she seems… I don’t know…”

“Good?” Cas finished.

Dean nodded. “Yeah. She seems good.”

Cas snuggled closer into him. “Okay.”

“Why did you want to know? What’s up?”

Cas took a moment to answer, as though thinking on whether or not sharing was a good idea. But he brought himself to spill.

“How opposed would you be to her joining us? In the greater scheme of things. Would… would that be all right?” 

Dean frowned for a minute or so, and not in a disagreeing sort of way. More so in the way of thinking it through, tossing Cas’ question between hands and juggling it.

What if they brought Meg along with them? That was an interesting question. They would find the trapdoor, the exit, and the three of them would be on their way. Perhaps Meg would go back along to 4, be with her friends from the Pier. Or maybe she would take a leaf from their book and escape as far as she possibly could, until Panem was far behind her.

Maybe, in the end, it would be the three of them against the world, and it didn’t seem like a bad thing at all, in Dean’s mind.

They were just kids in a very twisted situation, after all. Kids need to stick together sometimes.

“I don’t see why not,” Dean said, and he could just about feel Castiel’s smile melt right into his skin, warm and joy filled.

“Thank you,” Cas whispered, and Dean pulled him closer.

What a strange thing, their tiny fellowship had become. Although it was rather lacking in hobbits.

Dean wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, or if Cas was first to drift off beside him. He has a clear memory of staring up at the stars and where they connected with the horizon, not sure of when he would see the sky and ocean kiss again. The amulet was cool between his fingers, and then he seemed to fall into a comfortable nothingness, an empty dreamscape, which he was more than grateful for.

It was an hour and some later when Meg finally came to join them under the sky, a hand loosely carrying her shoes, sand coating the dark hair on her legs and stuck between her toes.

She crawled on the sand and seated herself up against the wall, careful not to disturb the two lovebirds sleeping away next to her. Bit of idiots, those two, falling asleep in such a dangerous place. She snorted to herself, tied up her hair, and put her shoes back on with some sadness weighing her down.

She really missed the sea side. The pier, the weed, all of her friends, and these dorks were only reminding more and more of everything that made home, home.

Slowly, she gathered her own pack, checking her pockets for her army knife, which she held tightly in her fist. Her eyes danced to the reflection off of Dean’s blade, and compared it to the little weapon she possessed.

Finally, Meg made a decision. Plucking the larger knife from next to Dean’s thigh, she stored it in her belt.

 _Just in case,_ she thought.

“Sorry, Winchester,” she whispered in the night, “Momma said I can’t hang around with you boys anymore.”

She looked Cas over with sad eyes, and huffed a sigh. She wouldn’t allow herself to get emotional over some kid from 1, who she met barely forty-eight hours ago. Although, there was something different about him. For a Career, there was something incredibly different.

It was for the best. Acting alone in the Hunger Games was a better move than sticking with a crowd. Otherwise the alpha wolves would turn on you, eventually. Given enough time and the mad panic for survival, they would not hesitate to slit your throat. Meg had no desire to be around to end up being the target of that scenario.

“See ya ‘round, Angel Face. Anderson. Don’t wait up,” she threw in, and smiled at the little nicknames.

Without a doubt, she would miss them. And she hoped she wouldn’t be the ones to kill them.

Meg walked off, the night surrounding her, as she reentered the canyon, and the walls consumed her.

The Fellowship of Clarence, Fucking Coal Boy, and Sweetheart, was broken.


	23. Chapter 23

**God Answers No Prayers**

_What is heaven like._

The thought came to him in his sleep, striking him behind the eyes. It was a far away voice, an unfamiliar voice, calling down from somewhere Castiel could not see but only sense somehow. A place he knew existed but could not place a name or a face to it.

 _What is heaven like?_ The question came again, curiously. _Tell me what heaven is like._

This alien voice rang in his head in strange echoes, sounding small, childlike, pestering for something that isn’t so easily answered and almost demanding for it.

 _I do not know_ , Castiel told it, the darkness, the sensation, swallowing his reply. _I do not know what Heaven is like. I’ve never been there._

Castiel wondered if this strange new voice in his head was capable of thought, whatever it was, for it took a moment or two before retaliating on what Cas had delivered to it. Deciding on whether or not to be satisfied by the words, by the truth, maybe.

 _How can you know?_ it asked. _How can you know if you’ve never been to heaven?_

 _Heaven is a place built for those who have met Death_ , Castiel retorted, _and have done good in life. Death has not yet come to take me away, so I have never even glimpsed Heaven before._

Then there became silence. The darkness was still, no echoes, no questions. Just silence, a wave that caused Castiel’s chest to tighten and finding the air hard to breathe quite suddenly, something resting on his ribs and cracking them by the second as he waited.

_What about hell? What can you tell me about that place?_

Castiel hesitated on this one. What was the voice trying to achieve with these questions? What did they mean to it?

_Hell is for those who have died and go to suffer for horrible things they’ve done while on this earth, he said. It’s an eternity of pain. Of sorrow. Hell is where the ultimate sinners go to die._

Again, the quiet rolled into his head, and all was still. After some time, he figured that perhaps the voice had disappeared and gone away in search for better answers to unanswerable questions.

But it is so rarely that people get what they want,

_(and the voice of god calls down to us and screams)_

and the voice spoke again. This time no longer curiously, but in the form of his brother’s voice, sly like his brother’s tone, drawling. _Knowing_.

_You’re a murderer, Castiel._

_(and the world is rendered deaf)_

_You killed that boy on the first day in absolute cold blood to save your coal miner lover from 12, you tore through someone’s throat with your arrows and you are a murderer Castiel. How do you know you’re not dead by now?_

_(and the world is rendered deaf)_

_How do you know you’re not in Hell?_

Castiel’s eyes flew open and a gasp found exit from his mouth, his body shot upright and a giant light in the sky blinded him instantly. He blinked a couple times until the black spots ceased dancing in front of him, to see the sun slowly creeping its way over the ocean’s horizon.

_(the world is rendered deaf)_

His hands were shaking and clammy, palms sweaty, and he wiped them anxiously on his pant legs, willing them to stop. “Just some terrible dream,” he muttered to no one, “Just some awful, awful dream.”

Yet no matter how hard he tried to convince himself of it, the voice of Lucifer still rang out in his head, a distant memory that he couldn’t push away.

_How do you know you’re not in Hell?_

He took a minute of steady, calm breathing, before noticing that his body was still very much pressed into Dean’s. The lengths of their thighs were touching, leaning into each other. Connected in that sense. Dean was still sleeping, soundly, peacefully. His chest rose and fell visibly with each breath, arms crossed over top, face tilted towards the sky. A slight, clever smile played on his lips.

The bad taste in Castiel’s mouth finally began to fade away, as he stared at Dean. The haunting voice as well decided to take its leave, becoming nothing more than the simple nightmare it was.

The sky is open today.

 _Are you dreaming? Cas_ wondered, brushing his knuckles gently against the curve of Dean’s jaw, _What dreams make you smile like this? What’s going on inside your head?_

Then, after a wishful moment, _Are you dreaming of me?_

As it turned out, Dean was dreaming of Cas. He was dreaming that instead of being jolted awake in the arena and facing another day of torturous survival, that he was back in the tribute tower, waking up beside Cas for the first time. Being so close under the sheets, Dean could only pull Cas closer, breathing in heavily the sent of his hair, kissing his forehead. Living in a moment that was sure to die, but could be savoured.

Dean dreamed that he could have that again.

And Cas would never know this, but he would glance and watch Dean, a sleepy grin swooping on his mouth in an upturned slope.

_Are you dreaming of me?_

The thing about poetry, is that it is more a thing of nature than a thing of man. Man just comes across it and interprets it into proper wording. It’s something that has to show its face. And poetry showed itself to Castiel through Dean Winchester.

Fumbling for the pen and notepad Dean had given him, flipping it to a blank page, he began to write. He tried to go fast, as to not forget the words that flooded him in that moment, the words, the ideas, the imagery. They were coming fast, and Cas wanted so desperately to capture them all. Occasionally, he’d allow his eyes to drift back onto Dean, and then the pen would kiss paper again.

Poetry is such a fluid thing. It’s a kind of liquor that has the ability to make you giddily drunk or terribly wasted off past pains. It’s a silent song that holds so much power to be entered into the human psyche, and Castiel was more than good at it. He was perfect.

A couple more lines jotted down, blue ink drying amongst the page, and Cas found himself faced with three completed stanzas. All that needed editing, of course, but that could be done when the three of them have relocated for the night in a safer place than this. Until then, the poem would stay tucked way in his right breast pocket. For safe keeping.

How odd a thing that they were still even alive at this point.

Falling asleep against the rock face on a wide open beach, with no overhead protection, no cameo, nothing to hide them if someone where to discover them here. And yet, somehow by some miracle, no one had passed execution over them in the dead of night. Their throats remained intact, no blade having passed over their skin. As Cas rubbed his neck, just to make sure, he offered up a silent prayer, if God cared to listen. A simple word of thanks, and a simple request for further protection along the way through the wasteland. Because they had been foolish.

God, so damn foolish.

Somewhere, Lucifer was on the other side of the screens, probably screaming at Castiel for being such an idiot when he knew better. Gabriel, at home, maybe drunk because his baby brother wasn’t following a smart ideology, probably muttering _Oh fuck Cassie, what the hell are you thinking?_ Was Sam raising an eyebrow at Dean from home? Worried that the elder Winchester was being reckless? Cas didn’t know. Would never know, for certain. It would just be nothing more than a thought, a hypothesis to never be tested.

The fact was, though, was that Cas and Dean were still very much alive. They’d made it this far, farther than most.

_We’re gonna make it out of here._

Thank God He had mercy on their two souls—

And that’s when a realization hit Castiel. One that hadn’t quite registered before, but now he was facing it and it was blooming fast.

_Oh, no._

He scrambled to his feet, kicking up sand everywhere, his shoulder scraping against the rock behind him, and he hissed out in pain as he stood. At first, he started to walk out towards the shore line, before he quickly found himself sprinting at full force, feet striking the salt water with so much force he thought he might fall into the waves. His heart drummed loudly, echoing through his chest, banging against his ribs each time. Cas twisted and turned, eyes searching frantically.

 _She has to be here somewhere,_ he told himself, _she has to be, she couldn’t have just gotten up and left, she has to be here, she has to be…_

But nowhere along the beach did he see that long dark hair casted over a round face, plastered with a cunning smirk and sarcasm that would’ve outmatched the devil, and—

“Fuck,” Castiel muttered. _“Fuck.”_

He ran back over to Dean. The ocean thundered behind him along with the blood pounding in a steady rush in his ears, a building storm that would come down and break houses and ruin towns, rip people to shreds. The sun at his back in a glow that should’ve been warm.

 _She left us_.

Cas slid to a stop beside Dean, immediately taking his face in his hands, starting to beg him from his sleep in timid whispers.

_(they can hear you castiel they are after you and they will find you)_

“Dean. Dean, wake up. Dean. Dean.”

Cas shook his shoulders, perhaps slightly more aggressive than he needed to, and Dean’s eyes fluttered open. His body tensed, an arm suddenly smacking Cas in a jerky motion, and Cas realized Dean was trying to attack him.

“Dean, calm down,” Cas said, trying to keep his own voice composed under the shaking, “It’s me Dean, it’s me!”

Dean’s outburst stopped. “Cas,” he breathed, the panic from his face falling away slowly. He blinked a few times, eyes getting accustomed to the morning light. And Castiel watched the confusion morph from Dean’s expression into recognition, forming into a worried look that surely must’ve matched his own.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, quietly, softly. “Cas, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” He spoke as though someone would hear them,

_(theyre coming for you)_

as though they weren’t the only ones on that beach. And of course they weren’t. Cameras circled them wherever they went. No one was truly alone here. Every word was heard, every movement documented. That simple.

_She left us here._

Dean squeezed Cas’s fingers, and it was only then that Cas noticed that Dean had removed one of the lingering hands from his face and pulled it close to his chest, thumb running smoothly over the knuckles. “Talk to me, man.”

Cas swallowed. Trying to find air that seemed to be vacant in this container they were forced into. Air that suddenly vanished.

“It’s Meg,” he finally sputtered, “Meg is gone.”

It too a few seconds for Dean to process what Cas was saying, his glance being redirected into the sand.

“Like, gone gone, or just…” he made a vague gesture with his free hand. Cas shook his head.

“No, no, she’s not dead. Her cannon would’ve woken us up hours ago if she was. She just left.”

“You think she would get with the rest of the Careers? Turn on us like that?”

Cas’s breath stuttered. He didn’t know. Would it be unlike Meg to throw them into the lion’s den for some promised immunity? Would it be something she would do?

Of course, Cas didn’t want to believe it. But he sighed, and that was evident enough for Dean.

“We need to go,” Dean said. Barely audible, even to Cas’s ears. “We need to get back to the cave, we can figure out our source of food from there—”

“She knows where it is,” Cas stated, “We can’t go back there. If she… If she betrays us to them, then we’re dead men walking. We have to go somewhere else until we can…” he trailed off, and Dean nodded in agreement. The trapdoor was waiting to be found. They needed to get out of the crevasse, out of the arena.

“Then dead men walking should make a few miles,” he said, and the both of them rose to their feet. Dean slung their one pack on his back, Cas shouldering the quiver and gripping tightly to the bow. Just before the left, Dean moved his hands through the sand, searching along the ledge they slept against.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck! She took my knife, the two faced bitch…”

The only way to go was back into the canyon. And it welcomed them, much like the way a shark welcomes small, unsuspecting fish.

They walked at a fast pace. Not talking, too busy listening to the sound of silence creep in around them. It was oddly eerie, the sound of their own shuffling footsteps not enough to make the awful feeling go away, that they were being stalked. Every now and then Cas would knock an arrow and scan the canyons edge, scoping for movement, fingers so desperate for the release, to feel at ease for just a split second.

_(its so rare that people get what they pray for)_

What Cas concluded was that if they were being followed, then the Careers were damn good at being sneaky.

Dean led the way, despite being unarmed with the exception of his hand to hand combat, but Cas supposed he could protect him better from behind. There was a sense of that, at least, to offer Cas some kind of comfort to this madness.

 _She won’t betray us,_ he tried to convince himself, _she wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t. We were going to take her with us, we were going to escape together, the three of us against the Capitol. She wouldn’t leave us like that…_

But he still had difficulty believing, and continued walking.

An hour into the trek in when they heard the canyon sound off, from maybe less than a mile away at the most. It rang throughout the arena, and a shudder passed through Castiel’s bones.

_(theyre coming for you castiel and it is not you who they will end its him)_

“Dean,” Cas called, softly. They needed to start running. They needed to go.

But as Dean turned around to face him, a shot was fired into the air.

Immediately, Cas spotted a Career from the top, with a smoking shot gun in hand. The knocked arrow finally flew, striking the boy in the upper thigh. A screech of pain, and the body fell, gripping the gun into the sand.

“Run,” Cas started, “Dean, run!—”

But upon turning back, Dean wasn’t moving. Instead, his face had gone a ghostly pale, and his left hand was pressed tightly against his right shoulder. Red seeped through his fingers.

Cas’s eyes widened, and once again he did a quick scan of the ledge.

 _He was a scout,_ Cas noted, _far ahead of the others, but they’ll catch up soon._

He went to Dean, heart pounding, gently grabbing the uninjured arm and tugging him closer to the wall, offering minimum shelter, but better than nothing and being one hundred percent exposed.

“Fabric. Do we have any fabric, cloth, anything…” Dean blinked a few times at Cas, as though he were struggling to hear was the other boy was saying. Cas realized they probably didn’t. He reached for another arrow from the quiver, but instead of merely knocking this one, he lent down, and used the arrowhead as a knife, cutting a length from his calf until he had a nice long strip.

They just needed some pressure on the wound, until they got to safety. Just enough pressure, just enough…

Cas then took the arrow and forced the wooden shaft between Dean’s teeth. “It’s going to hurt,” he muttered before pulling Dean’s hand away from the fresh bullet hole, blood seeping out like a river down a waterfall, almost in little spurts.

Just as Dean was making a whimper of protest, Cas moved quickly, tying the material around Dean’s shoulder, and with one second of hesitation, knotted it tightly. Dean screamed around the arrow as the pain burrowed deeper into his skin, and by the time Cas had hazily finished, the arrow back in the quiver with very visible teeth marks, Dean was sweating.

More gunshots came from a short distance. They were joined by a choir of animal calls, loud and vicious. Hungry for something. Hungry for flesh.

 _No, not animals,_ Castiel thought, _the Careers. They’re catching up. They found us._

“Do you think you can run?” Castiel asked, cupping Dean’s face. Dean nodded, breathing heavily as he did. Cas pushed him. “Get as far ahead as you can. I’ll ward them off.”

“No,” Dean grunted, voice sounding like he was choking, “Cas, I’m not leaving you again—”

“Go or we’ll both die!” Cas cried. “Now run!”

Bullets rained down onto the canyon floor, dirt flying up all around them. Both boys sprinted now, keeping close to the walls.

Dean was having a hard time, but just focussed on keeping his legs moving. Every time a step would make contact with the ground a bolt of pain shot up into his arm hanging almost useless at his side, tingling in the most uncomfortable way that made white flashes go off behind his eyelids, but he managed to keep going.

Sam was out there, somewhere.

There was no dying. Dying in here wasn’t an option. There was only surviving, and going home. Going back to Sam, going back to Sam, going back to Sam…

He kept running.

Cas followed maybe five feet behind, every now and then stealing a glance to above. He counted four figures, all armed, although not all armed with guns as the Career Cas crippled were. He saw a mass of fiery red hair with a sword at her belt, and he clenched his teeth. Anna still had it from the first day, and had tried to murder Dean with it.

He recognized the two along side her as being the tributes from District 2—Adam and Ruby, if Cas could remember correctly—Adam holding what could’ve been an AK-47 assault rifle, Ruby with no visible weapons. And then there was the fourth member.

Meg ran just as fast as the rest of them, although there was something awkward in the way she carried herself, and in the way she barely moved her arms. Cas didn’t have time to fully analyze the situation. He had to focus on moving, on going. Avoiding bullets like they were hail coming down to smash his brains out. There’s a moment in time where they come to a full stop, but by then Cas’s ears were ringing with such violence he started to believe he had gone deaf with the rounds, and he was too concentrated on making sure Dean didn’t get shot again to care.

Cas began to wonder if they would just run forever. Sooner or later they would have to come to a halt, either because they met a dead end or because they died of exhaustion or because they would be gunned down and that would be the end of that. How long could the chase carry on for? Who would give up first?

The answer to Castiel’s question came very abruptly, when the two reached the end of the canyon's end. At the bottom of the rock face where they had first climbed down, to reach the cave, they were greeted by Anna, with her sword drawn by her side, Meg, with tears streaming down her cheeks, and Adam, his rifle pointed against Meg’s temple. The girl known as Ruby was making her way down the wall, but without grace. It looked as though at any moment she would slip and fall, breaking her neck on the way down.

Immediately, Cas had an arrow drawn and the string tense, pulled all the way against his shoulder. There were too many targets, though, and he didn’t know who to point at. Dean had come to a skidding standstill, and, very cautiously, stepped backwards until he was in line with Cas. His face had gone whiter, if that was at all possible. A quick side glance and Cas could see that the makeshift bandage wasn’t holding up as well as he would’ve liked. Blood was oozing from underneath, trailing down Dean’s arm and dripping into the sand below. He looked as though he would pass out at any second.

“Well, well,” Anna spoke, her tone loud and boastful, “If it isn’t little Castiel whose come out to play.” Her eyes shifted to Dean. “And his pet tagging along. He looks hurt, Castiel. Like he needs to be put down.”

Cas motioned his stance slightly so now the arrow was aimed to hit directly between Anna’s eyes, but he hesitated on letting the string go. Anna laughed.

“Oh, I think we were right,” she said, a sly grin crawling up her face in a way that made Cas’s stomach twist. “He knows if he shoots me then Adam here will just pull the trigger on little rascal here,” she moved her own hand up to her head, fingers fashioned into a pistol shape. She motioned the gun giving kick, and the grin only grew into something monstrous. “And all that will be left is her brains plastered across the canyon. _Boom_. _”_

He growled at his District counterpart, but his hands started to shake and sweat. Just a little, that no one could notice unless they really concentrated on the wood of the bow, but he was shaking.

Meanwhile, Dean was practically snarling beside him.

“You… you fucking bitch!” He shouted. Not at Anna, but at Meg, and her tears only increased, along with a strangled sob. “We trusted you and you go and turn your back on us! You go and track us down with these psychos! Who the fuck does that?!”

“I’m sorry!” she screamed back, “I’m so sorry—”

In a blur, Adam took his gun and rammed the back of Meg’s head with the butt of it, and she tumbled to the ground, face first. She groaned and rolled onto her side. Dean shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think you are.” He spat in her direction.

But something was so wrong to Cas. It _felt_ wrong as much as it looked, and he let his eyes go to Meg, and what he saw threw him off. Her hands where bound together at the wrists, the rope cutting into the flesh and already leaving visible bruising. Not only that, but if she had truly joined the Careers, why did they tie her up and beat her? To use as bait?

“Dean,” he tried whispering, but Dean didn’t hear.

“I swear, if I even get close to you, I’ll kill you myself! We trusted you, goddamn it! And you betrayed us.”

Cas looked just above Anna’s head, watching Ruby slowly move down the wall. It appeared she was stuck.

So. He took a risk.

He fired at her.

The arrow made a perfect hit, through the back of her left hand, pining her to the wall, where she gave a long wail of anguish. Anna and Adam made the mistake of whirling around, giving the perfect window of opportunity. They could turn and run, if they wanted. Cas was very tempted to grab Dean and run the other way.

But Dean had other plans.

He lunged foreword, attacking Adam, wrestling for the gun. Another shot accidentally went off. Castiel quickly fired another arrow at Anna, but she was quick on her feet and dogged past it, running at him fast with her blade. She came down swiftly, something that Castiel also easily bypassed. At this point, he cursed himself for not having a close range weapon, like Dean did.

He managed to get Anna square in the chest with a firm kick, making her stumble, and pulled an arrow from the quiver, quickly breaking away most of the shaft, and fitting the head between his middle and index fingers curled up in a fist. He slashed at her, catching her cheek as she leaned backwards to avoid it.

Dean was still working on Adam. The gun had been knocked from his hands and now the struggle was to see who could kill the other the fastest with their bare hands. The thing Dean came to notice almost immediately was how clumsy the other boy was on his feet. He was good with his fighting technique, knowing exactly when and where to land his attacks for effectiveness. A punch or two rounded Dean in the jaw, sure to leave some swelling and bruising. If he ever made it out alive, that was. But Adam swayed just enough for it to be obvious is you focussed hard enough. Throwing all his weight into the assault that his stance wasn’t stable, and if he wasn’t careful he’d surely trip.

That gave Dean an idea, of course, and silently he thanked Sam for being such a great sparring partner all those years, no matter how much John yelled at them for it.

Blood was dripping down Anna’s chin now. Another cut was made by Castiel, his hairline sweat drenched under the warm sun. She hadn’t been able to make a scratch on him yet, her weapon too big to move with the speed she needed.

“Come on, Anna,” Castiel taunted, voice crackling and mouth dry, “You seem to be losing your touch.”

She spat at him, then charged.

Her sword swooped from underneath, cutting a fine gash along Cas’s side. He felt it, taking a sharp intake of breath as he felt the cold metal dig into him.

 _Spoke too soon,_ he thought, and carried on fighting.

Anna kept swinging, and Castiel kept dodging. He was becoming tired though, the day dragging on far too much. Every now and then he would try to find Dean, see him wrestling the tribute from 2, before he was forced to focus on his District 1 counterpart again. Meg was still on the ground, keeping her head down.

Cas waited until Anna swung again, and then made his move. He darted to the side, closer to her inside, and lunged forward. It caught her off guard with his hand suddenly around her throat and arrowhead against the soft flesh of her neck. Blood as red as Anna’s hair dribbled onto Cas’s knuckles.

“Why are you doing this?!” she shrieked. “We’re supposed to be allies, Castiel! We’re supposed to help each other win this!”

“Friends don’t exist in the arena,” he hissed back at her. She had dropped her sword, her own hands fighting to keep her from suffocating and to keep the arrow at bay.

“You’d have a better chance of surviving with us,” she said, “Better chance than with that coal boy over there. Why don’t you fight with us?!” 

He pushed against her windpipe, shoving her away where she collapsed on her knees, coughing hard.

_Because I am a monster who refuses to be._

“You say there’s no friends in the arena,” Anna huffed, slowly regaining her stance. “Then what the fuck is he?”

She tired to lash out at him with her hands, punching and kicking where she could. Castiel blocked, but had a hard time throwing ones of his own.

The punch juster missed Dean’s face by less than an inch, barely grazing, and that’s when he found his opportunity. He kicked low, sweeping Adam’s legs from underneath him. Adam found himself flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him and struggling to breathe. Dean immediately lunged for the gun, the weight oddly light in his hands. Nothing like any of the pistols he had used before, where they were comfortably fitted into his palm like a key. The assault rifle felt different.

And different was bad.

The other tribute was still wheezing in the sand by the time Dean whirled around, and he pointed the tip of the barrel over his left breast, overing just above, finger ready on the trigger. He had it fitted into his left shoulder, awkwardly, pain still shrieking from the bullet hole in his right. Sweat rolled into his eyes, and Dean attempted to blink away the burring sensation of the salt.

He hesitated.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Cas still dancing around Anna, both of them bleeding, Meg trying to worm her way away from the scene, with much difficultly. _She won’t make it far,_ Dean thought, _by the time we’re done here she would’ve barely shuffled anywhere._

He didn’t pay mind to the cramping starting to form in his left hand, or to the rapid pace of his heart, skipping a beat, two beats.

_What is heaven like?_

There was a voice in his head, and Dean knew instantly it wasn’t his own. It was too calm, too childlike and small to be of his own, and despite that it was still talking.

_What is heaven like, Dean?_

“Screw off,” he muttered, grip tightening on the gun, knuckles white around it. But he still didn’t shoot.

Adam’s breathing was laboured, but coming back to him, and he was growling now. “Do it,” he snarled, “Go ahead. Kill me.”

There was something in his eyes that caught Dean off guard,

_(hes a dog)_

the way his eyes seemed so big and wide and despite the conviction of his words,

_(hes a rabid dog who knows hes gonna be put down he knows hes a dead pup)_

he was afraid.

“C’mon, coward,” Adam coughed out, “Just it over with and do it.”

 _Pray to God,_ the mystery voice sang, _and he shall do justice to all the sick dogs. Heaven waits, heaven waits, heaven—_

Dean pulled the trigger.

There was a moment, where all there was in the air was nothing more a click and silence.

Then one heart beat. Then two.

Dean heard a scream, and glanced over to see Anna pinning a heel in between Meg’s shoulder blades, and Cas loading up an arrow on the bow. Blue eyes in a state of haunting, of coldness.

And Adam wasn’t dead, looking just as surprised as Dean felt. The gun had run dry.

Dean dropped to his knees, straddling Adam’s chest, holding the rifle across his throat. He pressed down, throwing as much weight onto it as he could, watching the boy’s face turn red before fading into purple. He struggled, hands flailing, body squirming in an effort to throw Dean off, but Dean was solid, the entire time his right arm on fire, telling him to stop for the sake of it, but he couldn’t.

Adam’s eyes began to bulge seemingly out of his skull, and his mouth gaped out words nobody could hear.

_(dogs don’t understand why theyre being punished dean no one knows how they got here like pit bulls destined to bite and cry)_

_Are you going to kill him?_

It was the voice. Young, curious. Enough to be dangerous.

It sounded too much like Sam.

_Are you really going to kill him, Dean?_

His hands began to shake, the AK trembling against the kid’s windpipe. His eyes began to burn again but this time he realized it wasn’t from the sweat. They were tears.

 _It’s okay, Dean,_ the voice said. It was calm in the storm raging in his head, and it was something that scared him. You’re not a monster, Dean. It’s okay. I still love you.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

And with that, just when Dean was beginning to wonder if Adam would ever break, his trachea caved in.

A cannon fire shook the canyon.

The bandages from his wound were all bled through, no longer of use.

He took a second to breathe.

_Gotta survive. Gotta survive. Gotta help Cas. Gotta survive._

He started searching Adam’s jacket for refills.

Anna hoisted Meg by her hair, kneeled behind her and creating a human shield. A knife was held to Meg’s neck, a thin red line left where it trailed. And Cas recognized it as the knife Meg took when she left. He never expected to be seeing either of them quite so soon.

The redhead took the stolen blade and rearranged its position, holding it so the tip now pressed to her throat right below her chin. Cas still had an arrow on her, standing completely motionless.

“You shoot me, I’ll lurch backwards. And little Miss Daisy will be flung into hell along side me.”

“This leaves us at a standoff, Anna,” Cas called at her, “And you know these don’t end well.”

“The fucking _Games_ never end well,” Anna snapped, “What did you expect? That you and 12 over there would live happily ever after in some dreamland?”

_What’s heaven like?_

“Face it, Castiel. He’s going to _die_. You’ll kill him. I know you will. Just like you’ll kill me, and like how you will slaughter every other damn tribute in this hellhole! You don’t know what I’ve seen in our training. You’re a monster, Castiel! You just haven’t found the guts to release it—”

There was the firing of a gun, followed by another rapid secession of maybe ten shots. First Cas saw the dark blossom through Meg’s chest. Then he saw the one that flew through the back of Anna’s head and out her left eye, and another from her cheek.

Both girls fell. Anna’s cannon rang out. Meg choked on her own blood. Dean still stood over Adam’s body, the AK still smoking as the tip of the barrel. He let it fall to his side, and ran over to Cas.

“Hey. Hey, Cas,” Dean spoke softly, dropping the gun and holding Cas’s face in his hands. “Hey, look at me. Look at me.”

Cas blinked a few times, not realizing that he had dropped his own weapon, standing frozen, blood everywhere. It was splattered like freckles on his and Deans’ faces. It was all over Meg. A line of it trickled down the wall where Ruby was struck by Cas’ arrow, although by the looks of it, she had pulled herself free, and was nowhere to be seen.

Blood was everywhere.

“Cas?”

Cas finally looked up into Dean’s eyes, and a part of him took refuge there, for a little while. In the way those green eyes were now tormented by too much of all this but still found ground to come and make sure Cas was okay.

Cas nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m good.” Yet a part of him didn't seem so convinced.

The second cannon fired, and now there were three lifeless bodies that littered the crevasse floor. Birds who dropped dead, thinking that maybe somehow, they could touch the sky.

 _But men where never meant to fly,_ Castiel thought.

They picked up whatever they could. Dean reclaiming his knife from Anna’s cold fingers still tightly surrounding it, Adam’s gun and any extra clips he carried. They had no packs, and they assumed that the Careers shared one, and it was either with Ruby or the boy Cas had caught in the leg while sprinting for their lives. Anna had Meg’s pocket knife. Cas took it and placed it gently inside Meg’s jacket. Maybe they would bury it with her.

A sharp wind picked up, blowing dust into their eyes, forcing them to make a move on. The only place left for them to go was the cave, praying that Meg had kept her mouth closed about that, at least to the two that lived through the day.

If they had chosen to look up into the sky that night, they would have seen _Anna Milton, District 1. Adam Miligan, District 2. Meg Masters, District 4. Anthony Morris, District 6._ Another four, dead and gone. Flying the the way perhaps they had always wanted to on earth.

But neither Dean nor Cas looked up into the sky that night as Panem’s anthem played across the arena in the darkness. They curled up in their hideout, afraid to go to sleep for what nightmares may come, tending to one another’s wounds, not saying a word.

They didn’t look up at the sky that night.

Cas woke up in a fit some hours later, shivering beside Dean. Unable to go back to sleep, he reached for his paper and pen, and began to write. One of the silent comforts that helped ward off bad dreams. Later he would look at this poem and feel remorse before crumpling it up and moving on with the Games, but tonight, he wrote.

_No good men can fly,_

_only angels can fly._

_And even so, angels are just as capable to die,_

_Their wings will burn, ashes will melt,_

_Death will come, and the angels will scream,_

_and we will figure its nothing but dreams._

_No good men can fly, we all crash and are wrecked,_

_Voices fading and cracking and scratching at thin air,_

_because now we’ve realized God answers no prayers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I suck. I take almost four months to put out a chapter and I am so sorry. I'm almost always writing essays for English or doing some kind of assignments and that takes away so much of my writing time.
> 
> Also, please don't tear me to shreds over this chapter. I beg of you, I'm trying to finish this fic. Can't do it if I'm dead. Although I know some people are probably PISSED at me.
> 
> I'll be back, hopefully sooner next time (if you're not too mad, that is.)  
> -Marina


	24. Chapter 24

**Americana**

It was so terribly quiet, the next few days. Rain had followed the winds like angels crying down into the canyon, barely a muffled sob, barely an audible sound.

There had been no cannon fire. No more faces up in the sky as the nights came to pass. It was almost as if Dean and Cas had been abandoned in this place, as though every other tribute had died simultaneously that day, and they were left alone to fade away into the silence. To be forgotten.

The rain fell.

Some nights, Dean would startle awake, sweat pouring down his back and forehead in a fever. The nightmares came in waves, crashing into his mind and howling and ripping into him, and all he could see is the light leaving Adam Milligan’s body as he choked it out of him. Or Anna’s shot up face. Or Thomas’s throat and blood splattering everywhere like violent confetti. Or the image or Becky’s mangled body that still crawled its way into his head and her skin rotting away and her silent screams and he’d reached out to take her hand—

As he would wake, the sound of the rain would help set a pace for his breathing, his tongue fumbling to form forming the name, “Sam. Sam,” over and over again until the dreams faded into a dull numbness at the back of his skull, hand crushing the amulet still around his neck as though he were trying to summon his brother in front of him.

The rain would remind him of District 12. It offered a background noise that drowned out his thoughts. It offered a smell that would ease his headaches after every dream. It brought him home, just for a second. It brought him back to his mother, in a sense.

Dean would steal a glance at the watch on Castiel’s wrist, the other boy usually slumped against the wall, mumbling inaudible words through his sleep, sometimes shaking violently, and Dean would wake him up and hold him until Cas’s breathing calmed and his heart rate steadied, or until he fell back to sleep. Then, Dean would take his knife and go out into the canyon, breathe in the rain, and do something that felt familiar to him. Hunt.

Animals. Not children. He realized now that there was no way to escape this place without having blood on your hands. _Kill or be killed,_ as they always said. Anna and Adam were his first murders, and Dean was certain—and dreaded—that they wouldn’t be the last.

No. He wouldn’t seek out people to kill. He could do that much.

He was often reminded of Sam out in the canyon. Of the days they would sneak past the fence, Dean with his gun and Sam with his bow. Legolas and Aragon, off on their own adventure.

And then Dean would collapse near the wall and weep, reminded of how close Sam was to being trapped in this cage, and of being reduced to nothing but a beast. Reminded of the people—the _children_ —he slaughtered.

A faceless child would scream once, and then he would stand. Carry on.

A drenched snake was usually all he could pick off. On days where the rain was lighter, maybe a couple of mice, but even they were too small to get any meat from.

Today—the sixth, since the canyon fight—Dean got lucky, and somehow landed on a birds nest tucked away in a hole in the wall. Four descent sized eggs waited for him.

On his return back to the cave, Cas was still sleeping. He was shaking again, and although it was becoming a normal sight, it still made Dean’s heart sink.

Barely spoke, now. Wouldn’t drink unless Dean forced it down his throat, and refused to eat now matter how much Dean tried to coax some will into him. All he found the will to do over these past few days was sleep, and the few rare moments he was awake, he was scribbling away at his notebook, writing something he absolutely refused to show to Dean.

They were both struggling, both dealing with it to the best of their abilities. His form of coping came in nightmares, in walking the canyon floor in the early morning, with images of his brother, old memories of the two of them hunting beyond the fence back at 12, of them sparring. Anything that involved Sam. It helped to remind himself that there was in fact someone waiting for him outside the Games, and was watching him (even though Dean didn’t like it, he knew Sam was,) and Dean couldn’t afford to lose his mind in here. Not with the world watching. Not with Sam watching from far away.

Sometimes, he would catch himself praying. Dean shook Cas gently awake, the other boy grumbling miserably, and they started a fire in the cave’s middle together, silently. Dean cooked the eggs with a flat rock over the flame, the crackling and warmth offering a little comfort.

“How do you like ‘em?” he asked, and Cas glanced up, the dark rings underneath his eyes more than visible. He blinked twice.

“What”

“The eggs. Sunny side up, easy over… scrambled?”

Cas didn’t answer for a few moments, just dry swallowed and averted his eyes back into the sand. Dean was about to open his mouth and begin to protest that Cas needed to eat or he’d die and then there would be no hope of leaving this place, but Castiel surprised him.

“Scrambled.”

Dean smiled, although Cas didn’t see. He immediately withdrew the little crumpled notebook and pen and began to scribble something down.

For Dean, it was enough.

Nearly burning himself on the little makeshift pan, the eggs were mashed together, painstakingly, and were eaten slowly by the two of them with their fingers, making the small bits of protein last, their strange taste overturning in their mouths. It was a bland flavour, yet neither of them would dare complain.

For the most part, the meal was quiet. The rain accompanied them, but even that had a certain stillness that was eerie enough. Dean found himself looking towards the entrance, more often than not, and tried to shake it off. _Ruby doesn’t know where this is,_ he reminded himself, _neither does the one from 4. We’re safe here, we’re safe…_

But he wasn’t so sure it was Ruby he was scared of finding them here.

_(why didn't you save me dean you promised you promised you promised)_

He went back to his eggs.

After the plate was empty, Cas heaved a sigh, and laid back against the wall, tilting up his head. He wasn’t sleeping, perhaps another good sign.

Another thing that surprised him was that Cas started to talk.

“Did you know,” he started, softly and slowly, “that our Districts are on opposite sides of the country?”

Dean looked up, frowning.

“District 1 is far west,” Castiel continued, eyes still closed, body relaxing almost with every word. “West and to the south, slightly. 12 is all the way east, and if you walked far enough east you would eventually come to an ocean. A coast line.” Pause. “Did you know that, Dean?”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Another pause.

“I knew about the Atlantic,” he admitted. “My dad… My dad would talk about it sometimes. Before my mom died, he would take her there. Sneak out of town when no one was looking… That was apparently one of her favourite places to be. By the water.” Now he turned his head up to the glowing rock ceiling, and sighed. “I’ve never been.”

Cas hummed a note. “Neither have I.”

Some more silence came by, and it was a silence less tense. More of a simple quiet, if anything.

“Panem is going underwater,” Cas added. “During the Dark Days it sank down to eighty percent of its original landmass, but I still suspect the number continues to decrease even now. Although, years and years before the Dark Days, this place was called something else. Panem was never always here.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked, voice gentle. “What was, then?”

“They called it the United States of America,” Cas sighed. “One of the world’s largest superpowers, next to somewhere known as the USSR.” He laughed now, his exhaustion evident behind it. “I read about it in a few of my father’s old books, just like I would read about Japan. They had an anthem; apparently most of the citizens were incredibly patriotic for their country. _The land of the free, and the home of the brave,_ they would sing. If only they could see what their beloved homeland has become now. I wonder what they would think…”

He trailed off, with a certain sadness, and Dean could feel it from across the floor.

“What other books did you read at home, Cas?” he asked, desperate to keep him talking, to listen to something other than the rain and the little voices that rattled off in his head, and to stop seeing the images that haunted his mind.

“One of my favourites that Gabriel used to read to me was called _Fahrenheit 451._ I in turn read bits of it to Hael while she was on her deathbed. It was written by a man named Bradbury. I rather enjoyed his style.”

“What was it about?”

“Lots of things,” Castiel chuckled. “It’s about so many things. Mostly about a fireman, who lives in a world I suppose isn’t so much different than our own. Books are illegal, they burn houses down if they catch anyone with one, technology has people in a tight grasp. But then the fireman meets a girl, who’s seventeen and crazy and suddenly his worldview starts to change. It’s… quite wonderful.”

Dean smiled. “I’d like to read it someday.”

“Do you have a favourite book, Dean?” Cas questioned innocently.

Dean thought on it. Of course there had been plenty of books he had read, but he had no idea if he could pinpoint one that meant the world to him or anything. He wanted to blurt out _Lord of the Rings,_ but there was something that stopped him, a distant thought that pestered his mind, begging to be noticed, and he searched for it until a line struck him.

_There once was a velveteen rabbit—_

“There was… there was this one book,” he started, feeling his throat close up, “I read it on the train. On my way to the Capitol. It—it was a children's book, actually.”

_When you are Real you do not mind being hurt._

“And, uh, it was about this toy rabbit,” he carried on, tongue suddenly feeling heavy, “It was given to a kid for Christmas, and they wanted to be real. This wise rocking horse told the rabbit it was possible for toys like them to become real. It believed it, of course. It wanted nothing more.”

_Real is something that happens to you._

“And… it was really fucking sad, to be honest. Because then the kid gets sick and they have to burn all the toys, and they’re about to burn this little stuffed bunny who just wanted to be Real. But then some magic happens, and he does. Because he knew love, and that’s what made him…”

He wiped at the few stray tears creeping down his cheeks, rubbing at his eyes and willing himself not to cry. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry in this place, he would not cry in hell.

_(the devil will not win)_

“I read it to Becky,” Dean finally said. “She was panicking in the train bathroom, and I couldn’t even blame her. Thirteen and scared out of her wits. And you know what I did, Cas? I told her she was going to be okay. I told her she was gonna make it out of here, that I would keep her safe.” He knocked his head once against the wall out of frustration. “What kind of fuck says something like that?”

Cas turned to look at him, with a soft stare. Then, without a word, he stood and walked over to Dean, seating himself on his right side, and began to change the bandages on Dean’s shoulder. Slowly, carefully. With love, most definitely.

“What else could you do?” he whispered, taking some water from a bottle and pouring some over the wound. Dean hissed. They’d dug the bullet from his skin the second day, and it was beginning to scar already. “What are any of us to do, Dean? We can’t save everyone. We can never save everyone. That is the tragedy of humankind.”

“Why can’t we?” he asked in an undertone.

Castiel sighed. “I don’t know.” he said. “I don’t know.”

The bandage was complete, and the two sat together for a long time, not doing anything, not moving. Just being in each other’s presence, both a calming beacon for the other.

Dean felt for Cas’s hand, and took a strong hold of it, intertwining their fingers, rubbing a thumb over the other boy’s knuckles. Cas frowned and turned his head to face Dean with a questioning expression. And before Dean could stop himself, he crash landed their lips together.

_(this is how the world ends)_

Their hands fumbled to catch hold of one another; Dean wrapping one around the back of Cas’s neck to pull him closer, and Cas’s tangled up into Dean’s shirt.

Every fear that they had, in that moment, was tossed into the wind. It didn’t matter that the Capitol was watching them, and it certainly didn’t matter that the entire country was watching them with an intense gaze. It didn’t matter that they could be dead tomorrow. Nothing else mattered except for the two of them, in that cave, with nothing more than the sound of the rain to eclipse it all.

Dean shifted his mouth down to follow the line of Castiel’s jaw and down to his neck, even daring to do as far as the collar bone before stationing himself there, sucking what would sure to be a blatant bruise there, leaving Cas to babble at nothing but his name and grabbing at whatever he could.

Their hands found each other, trying to find a hold to stabilize themselves, Dean planting hot kisses back up to Cas’s lips and locking them there, before pulling away, foreheads pressed together, eyes gently shut. Dean brushed his thumb over Cas’s cheek, and the two breathed in time, a song with no sound.

_(this is how the world ends)_

“I’m so sorry about Meg,” Dean whispered. “I’m so sorry… I killed her, I killed them, and I am so sorry…”

His voice had broken out into a sob, and Cas clutched at him tighter, attempting to pull his impossibly close.

“I know,” he told him. Softly. “I know. It’s not your fault. It’s okay Dean, it’s not your fault.”

“She was being held captive against her will,” Dean cried, “and I killed her, and you’ve been upset about it and I’m so sorry, Castiel.”

Cas took Dean’s face in both his hands. “Dean, look at me. Look at me,” he demanded when Dean’s eyes drifted down. Dean sighed, and followed the command, the blue of Cas’s eyes piercing right through him, harder than stone but not as cold as that of ice. There was a warmth that resided in those irises.

“Listen to me,” Cas started, slowly, his tone quivering and on the verge of tears himself, but he forced them away. “Dean Winchester, you are no monster. You were thrown into a situation where it was kill or be killed and you wanted to survive so you could go home to your brother. That does not make you a monster. That does not make you the Capitol’s dog. You are human and you did the human thing, which could not be avoided. Do you understand me?”

Dean hesitated, before nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he breathed out, “Yeah.”

“Say it. All of it.”

Dean’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and his lips quivered in a way that broke Cas’s heart.

Cas sighed. “Dean—”

“It’s not my fault,” he sputtered quietly, “And I’m not a monster for… for what I did.”

There was a pause in the air, and it hung there in suspension, waiting to be dropped.

“I didn’t want to become a killer,” Dean mumbled. A sad smile crossed Cas’s face, and a lone tear fell from one of his gorgeous blue eyes and tumbled to the ground. That’s what they had both become, hadn’t they? Boys with blood on their hands and a very dangerous love to fuel it all.

Of course, they were killers.

“I know.”

But Castiel knew the difference between them and monsters. It’s a profound difference. A wendigo will slaughter men for the sake of slaughter and rip into their flesh with their teeth and swallow their bones. A wendigo flinches at the light. They do not stop, and are never satisfied, and deteriorate from the people they once were into nothing but a rogue animal.

They were not that of monsters. Cas doubted that any tribute, Career or not, was.

“But we can’t save everyone,” he admitted.

Thunder rolled from somewhere distant. The rain carried on.

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“We’re getting out of here,” Dean muttered, head pillowed by Castiel’s shoulder, “I swear to God. We need to get out of here.”

“We’ll find it,” Cas whispered, threading fingers through Dean’s hair, a soothing action for both of them. “We’ll pack up. Leave tomorrow in the morning. Make our way to the forest. That’d be a good place to start.” Dean agreed with a slight hum.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

A pause. Then, “Can you read me a poem? Or recite something to me? That lullaby, anything…”

“Shhh,” Cas hushed, understandingly. “Of course I can. You focus on sleep. I’ll wake you up in an hour.”

“Thank you.”

Cas chuckled. “You’ve taken care of me in the past, Dean. It’s my turn to carry some of your burdens.”

He wasn’t ready to read out anything he had written in the notebook those past few days. Those were dark, and bloody and disgusting. He would show them to Dean perhaps when it wasn’t so hard for either of them. Perhaps when they were out. Somewhere in Japan, in a small house by the seaside, when they would have to talk about the Games again. But not in here where the demons could listen in.

So, Cas chose something out of his childhood, when he stumbled upon a poet named R. Frost.

 _“Nature’s first gold is green,”_ he started, voice calm and steady, a few more tears chasing after the first, _“Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour.”_

He felt Dean begin to melt into his side, relaxing, breathing deeper with every word, trying to soak it in and absorb it into his skin.

He continued on.

_“Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief.”_

He pulled Dean tighter into him, sharing the warmth of their bodies as an unexplainable cold passed through the cave. A breeze, maybe. Something darker, for all one knows. Cas swallowed and forced the feeling away. _Leave us alone,_ he thought, _leave him alone. He is God’s favourite. Let me protect him, for once._

_(you cannot destroy me)_

_“So dawn goes down to day.”_

Thunder grew louder, and the rain ceased to pour.

_“Nothing gold can stay.”_

And the day burned away, and Dean slept in Cas’s arms, and for the first time in six days, Cas found the will to pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, but here it is! Nothing much happens, I know, but the next one I'm considering to be pretty big towards the plot. We're getting a couple more characters involved soon.
> 
> -Marina


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